Melts termie

Kul Gilad batted the weapon aside with his power fist and stepped in to deliver a thunderous hammerblow to the creature’s midriff. ‘All-conquering Master of Mankind, be pleased with this war’s tumultuous roar!’ he sang, his voice booming from the vox-grille of his helm. His fist broke an armoured plate, and magma-hot gouts of its inner fire poured over his fist. Kul Gilad ignored the searing pain and drew back his fist to strike again. A flash of red and a burning pain in his gut told him he’d been hit.
...
	The meat stink of burned human flesh waxed strong. ‘Rejoice in furious challenge, and avenging strife, whose works with woe embitter human life,’ roared Kul Gilad, hurling himself at the monstrous god of war
...
	Time compressed, the motion of his fist moving at the speed of tectonic plates, every spinning warhead ejected from his storm bolter perfectly visible to him as its rocket motor ignited. His fist struck the daemon in the centre of its chest and he unleashed every last iota of his zealous fury and righteous hate in that blow. His fist shattered the hideously organic metal of the daemon’s armour and he felt his arm engulfed in searing, unendurable heat.
...
	His arm was a mangled, burned ruin, a stump of fused meat, bone and metal that only superficially resembled a human limb. Black smoke and dribbling gobbets of skin ran down the sagging plates of melted armour and though he knew he should be horrified at this nightmarish injury, he felt utterly at peace. He felt a burning pressure of heat coiling inside him, his biology shrieking in the agony of attempting to repair the damage done to him. A shadow fell across him, and Kul Gilad looked up into the face of the daemon, its fiery chest buckled and torn open, but reknitting even as he watched. The mortal wound he had struck it had been nothing of the sort and despair touched Kul Gilad at the thought of his failure. The leering daemon towered over him, terrible in aspect and horrifying in the single-minded violence it represented. He hated it with every breath left to him. The black paint of his armour peeled back at its proximity and he struggled to rise.

Priests of Mars