Molten Arms

On the other side, she could see Tyvar flanked. The demon with the horned helmet was chopping at him furiously with a pair of short cleavers lined with wicked, serrated teeth, and the big one she'd seen with his body half-encased in metal kept him penned in with great sweeps from a spiked hammer. Just one blow from that looked sufficient to take the elf's head off—but so far, Tyvar had managed to stay just ahead of every swing. His arms, she noticed, were no longer the rough black of basalt. Now they were a molten, glowing orange, as if he'd heated them in a forge. Each time he batted away a cleaver blow, embers scattered and winked out into the air.

INTO THE DEMON'S REALM