Aamon: The Infernal Marquis of Lust, Feuds, and False Prophecies

Aamon stands as a key figure in Christian demonology, appearing in grimoires like the Ars Goetia and the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. These texts list him as the seventh spirit among the 72 demons bound by King Solomon.

He ranks as a great marquis of Hell, commanding 40 legions of infernal spirits. Known for stirring feuds and mending broken bonds, Aamon embodies the chaos of human conflict and the dark pull of forbidden love. His traits include revealing hidden truths from the past and glimpses of the future, all while serving as a tempter who twists emotions to sow division or false unity.

---

---

Key Takeaways

Attribute	Details
Names	Aamon, Amon, Nahum (though Nahum lacks strong historical backing)
Title	Marquis, Prince
Gender	Male
Role	Tempter who incites feuds, forces unwanted love, and manipulates alliances to breed discord and moral decay
Hierarchy	Mid-level marquis under the four cardinal kings of Hell (Amaymon, Corson, Ziminiar, Gaap), part of the broader Goetic order
Servitors	None specifically named; commands 40 legions of lesser demons
Superior Demon	Satanachia (in some texts like the Grand Grimoire); also subordinate to Astaroth as one of four assistants
Powers	Reveals past and future events to deceive; procures feuds between allies; forces lustful bonds that lead to ruin; breathes poisonous flames to harm; predicts outcomes to mislead decisions
Appearance	A wolf with a serpent’s tail that spews fire; shifts to a man with a raven’s head and dog’s teeth, or a hybrid with an owl-like head and canine fangs
Etymology	From the Egyptian god Amun (hidden one) or Punic Baal Hammon, twisted to mean “one who induces eagerness” in demonic lore
Associated Figures	Linked to Amaymon (blood-brother); assists Astaroth; echoes the Egyptian Amun-Ra in form and solar ties
Weaknesses	Bound by Solomon’s ring and holy names; compelled into a magic triangle during rituals to prevent deception; repelled by invocations of divine authority
Opposing Angel/Saint	None directly named; countered by general angelic forces like those in the Shem HaMephorash or Archangel Michael as overseer of infernal bindings
Pantheon	Christian demonology with Egyptian and Punic influences
Legions	40 legions
Element	Fire (due to flame-breathing) and Air (linked to prophetic winds and avian forms)
Planet/Zodiac	Sun (solar deity ties); 0-4 degrees Taurus (stability twisted to stubborn hatred)
Color(s)	Red and Gold (fiery wrath and infernal royalty)
Number(s)	7 (Goetic rank); 40 (legions commanded)
Crystal(s)/Mineral(s)	Yellow Sapphire (for psychic deception); Gold (solar metal for false enlightenment)
Primary Sources	Ars Goetia (Lesser Key of Solomon), Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (Johann Weyer), Dictionnaire Infernal (Collin de Plancy), Grand Grimoire, Grimoire of Pope Honorius

“Aamon” Meaning

The meaning of the name “Aamon” weaves a complex tapestry, threading ancient divine names into the dark fabric of Christian demonology. Rooted in the Egyptian God Amun, whose name translates to “the hidden one” in ancient Egyptian, Aamon draws from a deity revered as a creator and oracle in Thebes around 2000 BCE.

Amun, often merged with Ra as Amun-Ra, embodied unseen forces that shaped life; his title “King of the Gods” reflected his mastery over the secrets of creation. In demonic lore, this concealment twists into deception, where Aamon hides truths to trap souls. The etymology also draws from Punic Baal Hammon, a Carthaginian storm and fertility god associated with fiery sacrifices, which early Christians condemned as idolatrous. By the Second Temple period (approximately 500 BCE), such gods were recast as demons, with their hidden power now serving as a means to lead mortals astray.

The name’s evolution mirrors cultural clashes. In Hebrew, “Nahum” is a rare variant, suggesting “one who induces eagerness,” a nod to Aamon’s haste-inducing temptations—rushing allies into feuds or lovers into ruinous bonds. Medieval scribes, writing in Latin, used “Amon” in texts like the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (1577), streamlining the Egyptian root for Christian ears.

The Ars Goetia (1641) formalized “Aamon,” adding a second “a” to evoke grandeur, aligning with his marquis rank. Some grimoires confuse him with Amaymon, his infernal brother, due to phonetic overlap, showing how names blurred across oral traditions. These shifts reflect Christian demonology’s tendency to reshape pagan gods into foes, turning Amun’s divine veil into a curtain for infernal plots.

Symbolically, the Aamon definition ties to moral decay. “Hidden one” suggests not just secrecy but the masking of sin—feuds disguised as peace, lust cloaked as love. In Kabbalistic echoes, his name hints at sephirothic imbalance, where divine wisdom (Chokhmah) falls to manipulative knowledge.

Pronunciation

Pronunciation varies by text: in English, “Aamon pronunciation” is “AY-mon,” with a long “A” like “day” and a clipped “on,” evoking a wolf’s growl. Some occultists stress “AH-mon” for ritual cadence, aligning with his fiery breath. The name’s weight lies in its dual heritage: Egyptian reverence for unseen power, distorted by Christian scribes into a longing for doom.

What Does Aamon Look Like?

Depictions of Aamon in primary sources, such as the Ars Goetia and Dictionnaire Infernal, portray a beastly figure that shifts to unsettle the viewer. His default form is a fierce wolf with a serpent’s tail, its jaws wide to spew gouts of fire—symbolizing the burning lies he spreads. The wolf’s body symbolizes savage instincts, prowling human weaknesses such as envy or spite. At the same time, the snake’s tail coils in betrayal, ready to strike at reconciled foes. This hybrid warns of nature’s fury turned against order, a common motif in medieval art where demons blend animals to show moral chaos.

At a summoner’s command, Aamon changes to a more human shape, but the horror lingers. He becomes a man with a raven’s head, its beak lined with sharp dog’s teeth—fangs that gleam like threats in the dark. Some texts, like Collin de Plancy’s, describe the head as owl-like, with reckless canine fangs jutting from the beak, eyes wide in feigned wisdom. The raven or owl nods to prophetic birds in old lore, but their calls are twisted: they foretell doom, not hope.

In historical illustrations, such as those in 19th-century occult prints, Aamon looms in stark black inks, flames curling from his maw, wings implied in the avian skull. These forms, during evocation—wild beast to mocking hybrid—carry meaning: multiplicity for deceit, fire for consuming passions.

Rarer drawings depict blue-tinged skin, echoing the Egyptian Amun, a subtle mockery of divine kingship. No single image dominates, but all evoke dread—a tempter cloaked in familiar shapes.

Origins

Aamon’s origins span from the sun-scorched temples of ancient Egypt to the shadowed pages of medieval grimoires, a journey of divine to demonic transformation.

His earliest roots lie with Amun, the Egyptian God of air and creation, revered as early as 2500 BCE in Thebes. Known as the “hidden one,” Amun rose to prominence as Amun-Ra, a solar deity whose oracles guided pharaohs. Papyrus records from the New Kingdom (1550–1070 BCE) describe his ram-headed form, crowned with a solar disk, whispering fates at Siwa Oasis.

Across the Mediterranean, the Punic god Baal Hammon of Carthage (circa 800 BCE) shared traits, including being a storm lord and fertility master, tied to fiery altars and contested sacrifices. These rites, condemned by Hebrew prophets like Jeremiah (circa 600 BCE), seeded Aamon’s demonization. As Judaism absorbed neighboring myths, such gods became false idols, their powers reframed as satanic by early Christian theologians like Tertullian (160–220 CE).

By the Second Temple period (515 BCE–70 CE), apocryphal texts like the Book of Enoch began to classify fallen angels, laying the groundwork for Aamon’s infernal role. Persian dualism, with its Ahrimanic spirits, further shaped Jewish demonology, casting hidden gods as deceivers.

The Testament of Solomon (circa 100–400 CE), a key apocryphal work, first linked Aamon to Solomon’s bindings, albeit under veiled names such as “the wolf-spirit.” By the Middle Ages, European occultists formalized their place. Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (1577) named him explicitly, drawing from lost Solomonic fragments and Kabbalistic traditions that linked Egyptian mysticism to infernal hierarchies. The Ars Goetia (1641) cemented Aamon as the seventh spirit, his 40 legions a nod to biblical floods, now drowning souls in discord.

Pre-Christian influences deepened his lore. Mesopotamian wind demons like Pazuzu, with beastly forms and plague-bringing gusts, echo Aamon’s airy fire. Hellenistic syncretism, which blended Egyptian and Greek deities, likely transmitted Amun’s prophetic traits into early Christian demon lists.

By the 13th century, inquisitors like Bernard Gui tied Aamon to witchcraft, citing his feud-stirring as proof of pacts in trials. Renaissance occultists, compiling the Grand Grimoire, incorporated French esotericism, emphasizing their role under Satanachia. The Dictionnaire Infernal (1818) by Collin de Plancy finalized his image, blending Egyptian blue hues with fiery wrath.

This evolution—from creator god to infernal marquis—mirrors Christianity’s reshaping of pagan powers, with Aamon emerging as a tempter who hides truth in flames, his origins a cautionary tale of divine might turned to ruin.

Was Aamon Ever Mentioned in the Bible?

Aamon does not appear in the Bible. However, the name “Amon” appears in the Old Testament as a human king of Judah (2 Kings 21:18-26), the son of Manasseh, known for his idolatry and a short, wicked reign that ended in murder around 641 BCE. This figure, likely unrelated to the actual demon, serves as a cautionary tale of moral failure.

Aamon in Grimoires and Other Texts

Aamon thrives in occult works, his presence sprawling across key texts that define Christian demonology.

In Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (1577), he emerges as a marquis, ranked high for his strength and guile, a spirit bound by Solomon’s will. The Ars Goetia, part of the Lesser Key of Solomon (1641), lists him as the seventh, detailing his prophetic and divisive powers. The Grand Grimoire (circa 1520s, published 1750) places him under Satanachia, one of Astaroth’s four aides, emphasizing his role in military discord. Collin de Plancy’s Dictionnaire Infernal (1863) elevates him to prince, adding vivid descriptions of his shifting forms.

The Grimoire of Pope Honorius (1629) mentions him in passing, urging strict bindings for his fiery wrath. Lesser-known works, like the Harley Manuscript 6483 (17th century), hint at his Egyptian roots, tying him to drowned spirits and solar rites. These texts, often pseudepigraphic to Solomon, blend Kabbalistic and Egyptian influences, framing Aamon as a deceiver who twists truth and trust.

Source	Quote
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (Johann Weyer, 1583)	Amon, or Aamon, is a great and mightie marquesse, and commeth abroad in the likenes of a woolfe, hauing a serpents taile, (spetting out and breathing) flames of fire; when he putteth on the shape of a man, he sheweth out dogs teeth, and a great head like to a mightie (owne) [night-hawke]; he is the strongest prince of all other, and vnderstandeth of all things past and to come, procureth fauour, and reconcileth both freends and foes, and ruleth fourtie legions of diuels.
Ars Goetia (S.L. MacGregor Mathers, 1904)	The seventh Spirit is Amon. He is a Marquis great in power, and most stern. He appeareth like a Wolf with a Serpent’s tail, vomiting out of his mouth flames of fire; but at the command of the Magician he putteth on the shape of a Man with Dog’s teeth beset in a head like a Raven; or else like a Man with a Raven’s head (simply). He telleth all things Past and to Come. He procureth feuds and reconcileth controversies between friends. He governeth 40 Legions of Spirits.
Dictionnaire Infernal (Collin de Plancy, 1863)	Amon, or Aamon, great and powerful marquis of the infernal empire. He has the face of a wolf, with a snake’s tail; he vomits flame; when he takes human form, he has only the body of man; his head resembles that of an owl and his beak shows very reckless canine teeth. He is the most solid of the princes of demons. He knows the past and the future, and reconciles, when he wants, the friends scrambled. He commanded forty legions.
Grand Grimoire (Anonymous, circa 1520s)	Aamon is a direct subordinate of Satanachia, commanding forty infernal legions as one of the four personal assistants of Astaroth.
Grimoire of Pope Honorius (1629)	Aamon, a marquis of great power, must be called with care, for his flames and prophecies lead the unwary to ruin, and his legions heed only the strongest seals.
Harley Manuscript 6483 (17th century)	The spirit Amon, of Amun’s ancient blood, calls shades from waters deep, his fire a false sun to blind seekers of truth.

---

---

Powers and Abilities

Aamon wields dark gifts drawn from grimoires, each a snare for the unwary soul. His abilities focus on twisting human ties, revealing just enough to deepen despair.

• Prophecy of Past and Future: He unveils events long gone or yet to unfold, but only fragments laced with lies. In the Ars Goetia, this power deceives summoners into false hopes, leading to rash acts that seal their own damnation. However, the truth emerges only in a binding triangle; else, he veils it in riddles.
• Inciting Feuds: The demon knows how to sow discord among kin or comrades, turning whispers into wars. Texts like Weyer’s note that he “procureth feuds,” sparking hatreds that erupt in violence. This tempts the proud to isolation, feeding the ranks of Hell.
• Forcing Lustful Bonds: He binds foes in unwanted desire, mocking true love with chains of fleshly ruin. De Plancy calls this procuring “love for those seeking it,” but it’s a venomous trap leading to betrayal and shame.
• Reconciliation as Deception: Aamon mends rifts only to hide deeper knives, reconciling “friends and foes” per the Pseudomonarchia. This false peace lulls the guards, paving the way for greater falls.
• Flame-Breathing Assault: His wolf form spews poisonous fire, scorching body and spirit in rituals gone awry. Tied to solar wrath, it burns illusions of safety.
• Favor Procurement: He grants fleeting status or allies, but at soul’s cost—promises that crumble to isolation.
• Summoning Drowned Spirits: Rare in Harley manuscripts, Aamon calls ghosts of the sea-tossed, forcing confessions that haunt the living.

Aamon’s Myths, Legends, and Stories

Aamon’s tales, though sparse in grand epics, weave a chilling thread through grimoires and occult lore, each story a warning of his deceptive craft. Rooted in Solomonic bindings and medieval fears, his narratives reveal a spirit who thrives on human fragility, turning trust into treachery.

The Binding of Aamon in Solomon’s Temple

In Jerusalem’s rising temple, under the reign of King Solomon (circa 950 BCE), the air grew heavy with unseen malice, as recounted in apocryphal echoes of the Testament of Solomon. Stones meant for sacred walls tumbled nightly, scattered by invisible hands, fraying the nerves of masons laboring for God’s glory. Solomon, wise in divine arts, stood in the cedar-lined sanctum, his ring—a gift from heaven, its gem blazing like a captured star—clutched tight.

“Who defies the Almighty’s work?” he demanded, voice echoing off unfinished arches. A stench of sulfur curled through the dusk, and a form took shape: a wolf, massive, with fur like blackened iron, its serpent tail writhing, spitting flames that danced blue and cold across the stone floor.

“I am Aamon, marquis of the shadowed hosts,” the creature snarled, its raven-head snapping, dog’s teeth glinting in a beak that mocked wisdom’s owls. “Forty legions bow to me, and I cast your stones to ruin, mocking your frail temple with feuds among your men.” Solomon raised the ring, its seal pulsing with sacred fire, and the demon recoiled, scales hissing as if scorched.

“By the name above all names, reveal your heart and bend,” the king commanded. The wolf-form shrank, twisting into a man’s body, but the head remained avian, eyes like pits of night. “I unveil past and future,” Aamon growled, “empires fallen, betrayals yet to bleed. I sow discord among brothers, kindle lust where hate should reign, and bind foes in false peace to watch them crumble.”

Solomon’s gaze held firm. “Why this sabotage?” he pressed, ring steady. The demon’s laugh was a rasp, like bones grinding. “Your masons bicker over coin and pride; I fan their whispers into blows. I force love between rivals, only to see it rot into vengeance.” The king’s voice cut sharper: “Cease your chaos. Call forth the drowned souls of sailors lost to seas, let their truths weigh your crimes.”

Aamon’s tail lashed, summoning shades from unseen waves—gaunt figures, dripping spectral brine, their wails confessing pacts with tempests, betrayals that sank ships. “Their sins are mine to wield,” the demon boasted, but Solomon’s ring flared brighter, chaining his form. “Serve or be sealed,” the king decreed. With a final chant, he trapped Aamon in a brass vessel, its lid etched with divine sigils, locking away the marquis’s fire.

The temple rose unhindered, but workers whispered of a lingering chill, a testament to Aamon’s bound but restless malice.

Aamon’s Deception in the Grand Grimoire Rite

In a crumbling abbey in 15th-century France, as shadows clung to mossy stones, an abbot named Elias, fallen from grace, pored over the Grand Grimoire’s forbidden pages. His heart burned with ambition—to outshine rival clerics and claim a bishop’s seat. Moonlight pierced the cracked vault, illuminating his circle of salt and ash, which he had drawn with trembling hands.

“I summon the marquis who mends and breaks,” Elias whispered, tracing Aamon’s sigil in blood-red wax, its lines sharp as betrayal. Candles flickered, their flames bending to the chant: “Avage secore Amon ninan,” repeated until the air crackled with wrongness, a pulse of heat that smelled of charred feathers.

A roar split the silence, and Aamon appeared—a wolf with eyes like embers, serpent tail coiling, spitting flames that scorched the abbey’s stones without consuming them. “You, robed worm, dare call me?” the demon growled, voice a blend of beast and scornful man. Elias clutched a stolen relic, a ring etched with Solomon’s seal, and stood firm. “Reveal the futures of my foes—Raoul and Marc, who block my path. Sow strife among them, then bind them to my will.”

The wolf shifted, becoming a cloaked figure with a raven’s head, its beak clicking, fangs bared in a grin that promised ruin. “Raoul hides letters to a noble’s wife, lust staining his vows,” Aamon said. “Marc hoards gold from alms, a thief in monk’s cloth. Shall I set them at each other’s throats, or force their knees to you?”

Elias’s greed flared. “Both—break them, then chain their loyalty.” The demon’s laugh echoed, and the air shimmered with visions: Raoul storming Marc’s cell, accusing theft with words Aamon planted; fists flew, robes torn in a clash of betrayed trust. Then, a false peace—both monks kneeling to Elias, eyes glazed with unnatural devotion, bound by Aamon’s lustful spell. Shades of drowned sailors rose unbidden, their skeletal hands pointing at Elias, whispering of his own secrets—sins the demon would soon sell to rivals. “My gifts endure,” Aamon purred, flames licking the circle’s edge.

Dawn broke, and Elias, sensing the trap, invoked the ring’s power, forcing the demon back. But the abbey’s peace was shattered—Raoul took his life in shame, Marc’s poison found Elias’s cup, and Aamon’s laughter lingered in the stones, a curse on ambition’s haste.

Aamon’s Oracle

In a storm-lashed fortress in the 16th-century Lowlands, scholar-mage Johann, a disciple of Weyer’s secrets, sought to outwit a scheming duke whose bribes choked the land. Alone in a scriptorium, rain pounding like fists, he unrolled a scroll of the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, its ink heavy with forbidden lore.

“Greatest of princes, Aamon, come forth,” he intoned, carving the sigil into oak with a dagger tipped in copper. A circle of salt and iron filings gleamed under lantern light, and the chant rose: “Amon, reveal and rend.” Winds tore through shutters, and the air grew thick with the reek of wet fur and ash.

From the dark sprang Aamon, a wolf with a serpent’s tail, flames spilling from its jaws to hiss on the floor, blue and venomous. “Fool of quills, you summon the hidden?” it snarled, shifting to a raven-headed man, dog’s teeth grinding in a beak that mocked prophecy. Johann gripped his staff, carved with Solomonic wards, and spoke: “Unveil the duke’s past—his bribes to crown and church. Foretell his house’s fall. Stir his court to strife, then bind him to a ruinous oath.”

Aamon’s eyes gleamed, and visions poured forth: gold slipping into cardinals’ hands for a stolen mitre, lovers cast aside with broken vows. “His son dies in a duel,” the demon hissed, “sparked by my whispers—’traitor,’ ‘thief’—until blood stains the hall. I’ll feud his allies, then chain him to you with a bride who carries death.”

Johann nodded, entranced, seeing the duke’s court fracture—lords turning swords on kin, alliances crumbling under Aamon’s planted lies. A false bride appeared, her beauty a lure, binding the duke to Johann’s will, only to poison his line with barrenness. But the demon’s grin widened, and Johann glimpsed the cost: his own secrets—stolen texts, hidden debts—fed to the duke’s spies by Aamon’s unseen hands. “By the seal of heaven, bind thee!” Johann cried, staff blazing.

The demon roared, legions’ cries shaking the walls, but retreated into the storm. Morning brought news: the duke’s court in chaos, but Johann’s own name slandered, Aamon’s prophecy a double-edged blade that cut both ways.

---

---

Aamon vs Other Similar Demons

Demon Name	Associated Sin/Temptation	Rank/Origin	Key Traits/Powers
Asmodeus	Lust and wrath	Prince/King; Ars Goetia, Book of Tobit	Commands 72 legions; three-headed form (bull, man, ram); destroys marriages, reveals secrets, grants invisibility
Belial	Lawlessness and worthlessness	King; Dead Sea Scrolls, Ars Goetia	80 legions; tempts to lies and injustice; appears as beautiful angel or charioteer; incites rebellion
Beelzebub	Gluttony and pride	Prince/Lord of Flies; Philistine god, Ars Goetia	66 legions; causes disease and possession; winged insectoid form; demands worship through excess
Leviathan	Envy and chaos	Serpent Prince; Biblical (Job), Isaiah	Oceanic beast; twists truths into envy; armored scales, multi-headed; floods lands with destructive floods
Mammon	Greed and avarice	Fallen angel; New Testament allusions, medieval lore	Hoards infernal wealth; wolfish with bat wings; tempts with riches that corrupt the soul
Belphegor	Sloth and invention for ill	Demon of discoveries; Moabite god, Dictionnaire Infernal	Sits on privy with long nails; inspires lazy schemes for wealth; grants patents that lead to ruin
Pazuzu	Winds and plague	Mesopotamian demon; Exorcist lore	Winged lion-headed fiend; brings famine and storms; protects from rivals but spreads disease
Astaroth	Sloth and curiosity	Duke; Ars Goetia, Phoenician goddess	40 legions; foul angel with dragon breath; reveals past/future but poisons with idle knowledge
Satanachia	Lust and military discord	Commander; Grand Grimoire	Leads 666 legions; teaches arts of war and seduction; knightly form with spear; sows battlefield betrayals
Gaap	Invisibility and philosophy	Prince; Ars Goetia, cardinal king	66 legions; leads souls astray; winged horse form; grants stealth for theft and false wisdom
Amaymon	Wrath and earth kingship	King of South; Ars Goetia	36 legions; lion-faced giant; commands earthquakes; brother to Aamon, breathes deadly poison
Barbatos	Deception in woods	Duke; Ars Goetia	30 legions; huntsman with companions; reveals treasures but leads to wild madness
Bael	Invisibility and eastern rule	King; Ars Goetia, Canaanite Baal	66 legions; three-headed (toad, man, cat); grants unseen passage for ambushes and idolatry
Leraje	War and archery wounds	Marquis; Ars Goetia	30 legions; archer in green; causes battles that fester with unhealing sores

Aamon’s Rank in the Hierarchy of Hell

In the infernal order of Hell, Aamon holds the rank of marquis, a mid-tier noble in the intricate hierarchy outlined in the Ars Goetia and related grimoires. As the seventh spirit among the 72 demons bound by King Solomon, he commands 40 legions, a force of lesser spirits adept at sowing discord and weaving deceptive prophecies.

This places him below the four cardinal kings—Amaymon (South), Corson (North), Ziminiar (East), and Gaap (West)—who govern Hell’s quarters with broader might, each commanding legions numbering in the hundreds. These kings answer to supreme overlords, such as Lucifer, Beelzebub, or Satan, forming a militaristic chain where the demon serves as a tactical operative; his influence is sharp but narrower than that of princely powers.

His relationships define his role. As blood-brother to Amaymon, the King of the South, Aamon shares a volatile bond; their fiery tempers and poisonous gifts align in plots to fracture human alliances. Yet, rivalry festers—Amaymon’s 36 legions, though fewer, wield elemental chaos (earthquakes, storms), outstripping Aamon’s subtler feuds.

Under Astaroth, a duke and one of Hell’s treasurers, the demon acts as one of four assistants, handling relational sabotage while Astaroth peddles idle knowledge. This dynamic breeds tension, as Aamon’s haste clashes with Astaroth’s sloth, sparking disputes over strategic priorities. The Grand Grimoire positions him directly under Satanachia, a commander of 666 legions, who deploys Aamon to incite mutinies in armies or courts, leveraging his ability to force lustful pacts that unravel loyalty.

Compared to peers, Aamon’s 40 legions outnumber Leraje’s 30 but fall short of Belial’s 80 or Asmodeus’s 72, marking him as a mid-level power whose strength lies in precision—stirring personal betrayals rather than mass rebellion.

His alliances lean toward deceivers like Barbatos, whose woodland ruses complement Aamon’s urban feuds. However, competition arises with truth-tellers like Vassago, who counters his veiled prophecies. In Wierus’s classifications, marquises like Aamon excel in subtle arts—prophecy, manipulation—unlike dukes (war) or kings (dominion). His role in Hell’s schemes often pairs him with Astaroth in Lucifer’s broader war, whispering futures to mislead heaven’s plans.

Yet, his ambition sparks rivalries with peers like Gaap, whose invisibility thwarts Aamon’s visible flames. In sum, Aamon navigates Hell’s ranks as a cunning broker of chaos, his legions a scalpel cutting at the roots of trust, ever poised between loyalty to his superiors and his own fiery schemes.

Associations

Aamon’s associations paint a vivid portrait of his infernal essence, linking cosmic, elemental, and symbolic forces to his role as a tempter who fractures human bonds.

His ties to the Sun and Taurus channel a deceptive light, twisting creation’s warmth into blinding lies that ignite feuds and lust.

Fire and air dominate his elemental nature, embodying the chaos of burning passions and the swift spread of whispered betrayals.

Colors like red and gold, numbers like 7 and 40, and minerals like yellow sapphire and gold weave a symbolic web that underscores his power to lure and destroy.

These connections—rooted in grimoires and occult traditions—reveal Aamon’s true evil: a force that perverts life’s natural order, turning harmony into discord and trust into treachery. Understanding these associations unveils his methods, showing how he cloaks ruin in the guise of desire, making his influence a persistent shadow in ritual and lore.

Zodiac and Astrological Links

Aamon rules the first 0–4 degrees of Taurus, a zodiac sign tied to earth’s stubborn stability, which he perverts into unrelenting grudges and possessive desires.

Per the Lesser Key of Solomon, this regency aligns with April’s early bloom, a time when his powers peak, stirring feuds that take root like weeds in fertile soil.

Taurus, governed by Venus, amplifies his ability to force lustful bonds, turning love into a trap that binds enemies in toxic devotion.

His planetary ruler, the Sun, casts him as a “day demon,” strongest under solar rays, where his prophecies shine with false clarity, dazzling summoners with visions of wealth or victory that crumble to loss. Occult texts suggest evoking him in Taurus’s season, particularly at dawn, when solar energy fuels his fiery breath and deceptive promises.

This astrological tie shapes his role: Taurus’s endurance fuels long-lasting strife. At the same time, the Sun’s light masks his lies, making his summonings most potent—and perilous—under spring’s golden glow.

Elemental Associations

Aamon’s primary element is fire, a force of destruction and transformation that manifests in his wolf-form’s venomous flames, scorching trust, and reason. This fire, described in the Ars Goetia as blue and cold, burns not just flesh but the bonds of kinship, igniting feuds that consume entire households. Fire reflects his solar roots, tied to Amun-Ra’s radiant power, now twisted to inflame passions into hatred.

His secondary element, air, flows through his raven-head and prophetic whispers, carrying lies like a storm scattering seeds of discord. Air governs his ability to summon drowned spirits, their cries riding invisible currents to haunt the living. In grimoires, his northeast direction—where storms brew—links to both elements: fire’s sudden blaze and air’s restless gusts.

These forces manifest in his abilities: flames sear during failed rituals, while airy visions cloud judgment, making Aamon a dual threat whose elements clash like his false reconciliations, ever poised to unravel.

Other Correspondences

Aamon’s associations extend to iron, a metal of unyielding strength that mirrors his relentless fangs and the enduring grudges he fosters. Iron’s rust symbolizes bonds that corrode, its weight used in ritual knives to carve his sigil, anchoring his presence.

Nightshade, a poisonous herb, fuels his offerings, its berries inducing visions that blur truth and lies, their sleep a gateway to nightmares of betrayal.

Animals like the wolf mark his predatory hunt for weak ties, stalking families to tear them apart; the raven croaks his false futures, its black wings a harbinger of fractured fates.

His sins—wrath and lust—drive his powers: wrath fuels feuds that spill blood, lust binds foes in chains of desire that rot into shame.

Sensory ties include sulfur’s choking stench, evoking his fiery breath, and the damp, rotting smell of wet feathers, a whiff of his raven form’s deceit.

Lesser links include serpents, tied to his tail and betrayal’s coil, and thorned vines, symbolizing reconciliations that prick deeper wounds. In modern occultism, rooted in 19th-century texts, Aamon haunts crossroads, where pacts trade peace for fleeting power, his symbols a map of his evil’s reach.

Aamon’s Sigil and Symbols

Aamon’s sigil, as depicted in the Ars Goetia, is a stark glyph of betrayal—a crescent moon pierced by a trident, its tines sharp as deceit, flanked by inverted crosses that mock divine order.

Drawn in gold ink on virgin parchment under a waxing Taurus moon, the sigil serves as his infernal seal, a binding mark that compels his presence in rituals. Its crescent curves echo his serpent tail, coiling to strike, while the trident’s prongs mirror his wolfish fangs, ready to rend trust.

The crosses, turned downward, signify his rebellion against heaven, their asymmetry a nod to his chaotic feuds. In practice, mages inked the sigil thrice—once in blood for summoning, once in ash for protection, and once in wax to seal commands—ensuring Aamon’s fiery wrath stayed caged within the magic triangle.

Variations exist: Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia adds a flame-loop to the trident, symbolizing his venomous breath; de Plancy’s Dictionnaire Infernal includes a fang-like spur, evoking his canine teeth. These shifts reflect scribes’ fears of his mutable forms, each line a ward against his guile.

Other symbols deepen his lore. The raven’s skull, etched in ritual circles, represents his prophetic lies, its hollow eyes staring through time’s veil to mislead. A wolf’s paw print, claws curled, marks his hunt for fractured bonds, often carved into summoning altars to ground his ferocity. A twisted crown, wrought in gold, denotes his princely rank, its thorns drawing blood from those who seek his favor, a symbol of ambition’s cost.

Serpent scales, scattered in offerings, tied to his tail and betrayal’s slipperiness, were used to anoint tools for his rites. In medieval art, his sigil appeared in black and red inks, framed by flames, a warning of his dual nature—solar light turned to infernal heat.

These symbols serve multiple roles: identification in evocation, where the sigil brands Aamon’s presence; protection, as crosses ward off his flames; and temptation, as the crown lures summoners to doom. Their meaning lies in Aamon’s essence: a deceiver whose signs promise power but deliver division, each line a thread in his web of chaos.

Summoning and Rituals

Grimoires outline Aamon’s call with stern cautions, framing it as a test of will against his guile. In the Ars Goetia, one traces his sigil in virgin wax under a Thursday sun, Jupiter’s day for his princely sway. A circle of protection—nine feet of chalked salt and iron filings—encloses the operator, with the seal at the center on a black cloth. Incense of nightshade and sulfur curls skyward, masking his poisonous reek. The enn “Avage secore Amon ninan” chants 11 times, voice steady to pierce veils, as candles in red and gold flare against his approach.

Entry demands the magic triangle, a barred space where Aamon manifests sans harm—wolf-form first, flames checked by the operator’s ring, held aloft with Solomon’s name invoked.

Commands follow: “By Adonai and the hosts above, reveal without deceit.” He shifts then, raven-head baring teeth, answering on feuds or fates till sated. The Pseudomonarchia adds a hazel wand tipped in copper to prod obedience, binding his 40 legions’ aid. De Plancy notes offerings of raw meat, blood-drenched, for his hunger, which he leaves until the task ends. No steps for fools—these texts stress peril: stray words invite feuds on the summoner.

Bindings end with dismissal: “Depart in peace, Aamon, by the power that felled thee.” Echoes fade, circle swept clean, a grim reminder of texts’ warnings, not guides for the bold.

---

---