The demon's head swings backward at the arrow's impact, its scream ripping through the air as harshly, raggedly, as its swinging claws. Animalistic, it drops into a spider-like crouch in the mud and muck, coiling its sinewy limbs in preparation to lunge--

--and that is when Loghain's shield bash connects solidly with the side of its skull, his sword following with an upward slash across its throat. Ectoplasm spurts in hot gouts, but it's in its death throes now. (A death that is helped along by the sudden appearance of a wild-looking wolf dog that goes for its throat.)

Loghain stops to look at Brónach just long enough to assess her state in a glance. "Are you injured?" he asks, already searching the field for the appearance of more demons.