battle ground wind

I let myself look concerned, drew in a breath and my power, and waited.
The Fomor Sorcerers’ Club chose to attack me when I looked distracted. I mean, who wouldn’t, but especially these jerks.
Predictable.
They lobbed those bilious green spheres of acid at me.
I spun toward them, my hand lifted, fingers spread, and pulled out an old one. I sent forth my power in the same moment that I drew on the silent gale of magic in the air, shouting, “Ventas servitas!”
On an ordinary night, the gale that my spell conjured would have been able to toss furniture around a room.
Tonight, I could have tossed furniture trucks.
The gale caught the spheres in midair, hurtling them back toward their origins on a nearly flat trajectory. The FSC was pretty good. Of the dozen orbs, eleven of their creators were quick enough to unravel the spell that held the acid in its sphere, which the furious gale promptly atomized and dispersed over an area too large to remain dangerous.
That twelfth, guy, though. Maybe he was somebody’s nephew, because he didn’t figure out that his own spell was coming back at him until it broke on his chin.
As endings went that night, his didn’t make the top ten. But on any other night, I’d have been impressed at the results. The acid was considerably more destructive to flesh than it had been to steel and concrete. It even turned his square yellow teeth into slurry.

Battle Ground Chapter 28, Page 256-258