The metal cracks against his face and head. He doesn't even hear what she's saying--though later when he remembers it, he'll be greatly amused. But for now it's more wind howling in his mind. Every time it strikes him there's a flash of red light and a boiling heat lances through him but it's no match for the terrible cold.

Azwel howls with pain and a kind of mindless, desperate rage, almost panic--his voice sounds strange, now, laced with reverberant harmonics, unnatural and inhuman. The more he's cracked upside the head with Cursed Sword energy the more the balance tips.

Panic-fear washes over him and he flails, twisting, clawing, grabbing, desperate to dislodge her. He's lost focus entirely, unable to manifest any weapons at all. And yet magickal energy snaps and wicks from him like solar flares.