"Oh, I have no intention of<em>fighting</em>you. I want something from you. A simple prize, for your beloved elf. And don't think you can save her. Kill me, or refuse and try to rescue her, and she'll be dead and devoured before you can even get close. All I ask? A single lock of hair. The white one, right there in front, preferably." She smiles, wickedly, maintaining the blade, but not rising into a position to fight. He can tell, now, that, while she's powerful, and likely might have been a match for him, when he first started, she's also pushing her limits, here, and the insects forming her are regularly burning out from power fluctuations. It would take quite a while, but more than an hour of this, and she'd lose too many.