Beer be with you!
-------------------
The air around this, most secreted, cave of the Wyrmspine was hot. The dragoncave, of which nobody but Shezmon and the Dragons knew, was the lair of several still-unbound dragons, including the Redlord Mephistopheles.
It was not a coincidence that Shezmon had entered the very same cave where this fearsome foe lurked.
A challenge lay in the scalding air as he made his way to the demigod's chamber.
"Greetings, ye Lord of Dragonkin. Disturb I ye rest?"
The dragon before Shezmon, larger than any of its kind, reared its scaled head, a terrible grin cleaving its face. "I have felt the enchanments of my summoning unbind. This must mean you plan to attack me! Nothing else could break the mutual respect forced upon us by your transdimensional atrocity! And that is why I stand here, ready to burn you to the cinders you were ever-destined to be!" With a great gasp, the King blew forth a cone of white-hot flames, the tongues of fire rolling dangerously towards the Archmage.
Shezmon waved his arm; his body became flames that conjoined with the dragon's breath, his sentience gone from physical form, and travelling through planes of fire unknown to any other. It was with great shock, then, that Mephistopheles watched the brazier to his side nearly explode with burning fury as the form of the persistent Disciple strode forth from it.
"Folly is thy name, mortal cousin of a spider!" Another jet blew forth, and the procedure was again repeated. But this time, before the breath weapon had stopped its great roar, the body of Shezmon came forth at the dragon's mouth instead, hopping easily to straddle its nose. And before Mephistopheles could recoil, the hostile mage turned his palms toward its face, hundreds of flames coming forth to incinerate.
The dragon roared, blinded, as its eyes melted furiously, spitting fire in all directions.
"Breathe deeply, Dragon King. I stand above your futile attempts, fulfilling now the destiny of that contract we signed. Brace yourself!"
Mephistopheles roared, now more out of tearing agony than anger, as the final, unspoken, unknown component of Shezmon's Dragoncall emerged, and the Dragon King's mortal form was torn asunder, the terrible magical energies flowing in a stream of flames, absorbed by the pillar of flame that Shezmon had become.
Then it was over.
Shezmon gasped and snapped into a sitting position.
The great, round chamber was no longer recognizable. Whatever had been its content had been thoroughly destroyed, blackened remains scattered around the chamber.
Yet nothing was as devastating to Shezmon as the feeling of the absorbing, the knowledge of and control over the magic that had once formed that complex construct, the body of the Dragon King. Shezmon understood that his earlier claims of being the source of draconic magic had been bluster; Mephistopheles had still been the true epicenter.
No longer.