They collide, and she feels a stab of pain at the impact point of her left shoulder. Until today, she had never used her magic for offensive purposes before, only defensive; she usually uses it to block attacks, not to create them. The ice-sheet that covered her has folded backwards with the force of their bodies slamming together, and a shard of her own making has jabbed into her shoulder to create a thin cut. A bruise from the slam blossoms beneath her flesh, and she silently notes for future use that rugby tackling her opponents whilst dressed in ice and lightning is not without its perils. Fortunately, the shard is not buried deeply and it soon dislodges itself, falling harmlessly to the ground to melt away.

She slams on her brakes, arresting her momentum. Somehow, she thinks her brazen attacking of him will jerk him into action; he will not let her go unpunished if he has any sort of life in his body. Fire alights in her soul at the thought of one final clash of swords, of ice and steel and determination, and her neck flips with savage - if exhausted - delight. Froth flecks her lips and her breath comes in ragged gasps, as she knows she cannot summon another attack. All she can do is defend, and she cannot let her concentration slip now.

Suddenly his birds burst from him - they are not his owls of feather and bone, but demons made of flame, of passion and anger and holy shit they're coming at me. The silver shies to the right, eyes rolling in her head at the sight of fire, because it scares the living shit out of her. It burns, it kills, it decimates, and she wants it nowhere near her tender skin. Scars from horns are all well and good, but she cannot abide burns, and the unique brand of agony they bring. With her ears slicked and her neck flung high, her movement to the right prevents one bird from hitting her, but not the other. One persistent little bastard grazes the outside of her upper left side, just where it joins her left foreleg; its touch is like a lover's caress, delicate and almost beautiful, until it isn't. "Fuck," she bellows, as the flesh the bird touches begins to shrivel and blacken. A small hairless welt is left where she and the phoenix-like apparition made contact, and although it is only minor, it still hurts. It might scar, it might not, but out of all her wounds it is the one she loathes the most, and the one she silently berates herself for taking - such a painful wound at the end of a fight could sign her death warrant, if Mauja was truly intent on killing her.

Thankfully, despite what she had coaxed her mind to believe during the heat of the battle, this is just a spar. She can afford to swear and bellow bloody murder without worrying about a knife between her ribs. With a heave of effort, she dips her head in acknowledgement to her foe, a silent tribute to a fight well fought. He had been a worthy opponent - she had expected no less!

___________

Fab fight Neo! :D

Closing defence - 563 words