Sanya vs Fomor

Behind them came a sphere of wavery aqua light. In the haze, I could make out a tall, slender, frog-faced form at the center of the sphere. One of the Fomor themselves, then, driving his charges forward. The shape lifted a hand and sent a crackling bolt of green lightning crashing against my shield.
That one was some serious sorcery. I held it off, but it took a gasp of effort and energy to keep the shield in place.
My leg twitched when I tried to make it work, which was better than a moment before, but not good enough to get me out of this one. “Butters, get clear!” I screamed.
“Not yet!” he said. “Hold the shield!”
My ears picked out running footsteps from up the ramp—no, from the opposite ramp, the one leading up the other side of the parking garage.
I saw the shielded Fomor abruptly turn, just as an enormous, friendly voice boomed, “Hello!”
And the haze of battle vanished, burned away by an aurora of silver-white light around a curved, gleaming Sword. Sanya, Knight of the Cross, six and a half feet of muscle, dark-skinned and graceful, whipped the shining form of Esperacchius through an arc, and it was as if the Sword itself cleared and cleaned the air before it as it moved. It struck through the Fomor’s arcane shields as if they had not existed, and before the foe could shriek, its head had jumped from its shoulders.

Battle Ground Chapter 16, Page 151-152