He meets the press, and increases the force and fury of blows to match it. He feels the earth moving beneath him, and moves with it. The fire singes the air around him, and the ashes reform, knitting the burns whole again before the next strike. She's starting to learn his rhythms, predicting where the next hole in his defense will be as his movement takes form. She requires his full focus, and that becomes his downfall.

He catches himself, between moments, reveling in her beauty, her strength and her competence with the magical forces she's wielding. And that is when she catches him off guard, sending him tumbling to the ground almost to the edge of the circle. There is another laugh, and he falls to his back, staring up at the sky.

'Sweet lady, mercy.'

He should be breathing hard, should be sweating, but none of these outward signs of exertion reveal themselves. His eyes, though, burn with an unholy fire.