Somewhere on the border of the warring clans. Somewhere on the edge of a distant wasteland. An evil wizard rides in human form. His warriors descend like a breaking storm. Under the banner of a two-headed snake, They kill, and they burn, and they rape, and they take. Thulsa Doom. He is the sorcerer of death. His victims curse his name with their dying breath. The Riddle of Steel, they will understand. Strength lies not in metal. It comes from the hand. His ultimate power, the will to command, Others to die and spill blood on the sand. A servant of Set, so his people are told, Thulsa Doom is a being ten thousand years old. A lich with two burning red flames as his eyes. In a skinless skull, when he's not in disguise. Back in his temple, past the halls of pleasure, His giant serpent guards his great hoard of treasure. The cult pulls in outcasts and seekers of vice. And from them Doom draws his next sacrifice. The Riddle of Steel, now they understand. Strength lies not in metal. It comes from the hand. His ultimate power, the will to command, Others to die and spill blood on the sand. When thieves in the night came sneaking around, And raided his temple without making a sound. They killed his pet serpent and made off with a gem, Then they dressed up like cultists, returning again. But this time, Doom caught one--the largest hero. Had him tied up and crucified on the tree of woe. When they attacked and made off with the princess in tow, Thulsa shot one with a snake he formed into an arrow. The Riddle of Steel, now they understand. Strength lies not in metal. It comes from the hand. His ultimate power, the will to command, Others to die and spill blood on the sand.
