Glorfindel was leading the rear-guard when the Balrog appeared, posing on a rocky spire high above the pass.
"Get back!" he ordered his soldiers. Without waiting to see if they obeyed, he approached the Balrog.
"I am a Balrog," said the Balrog. "You will no doubt fight bravely--you silly little Elves always do--but I will destroy you and your puny company."
"How?" said Glorfindel.
"There are any number of ways I could slaughter you fools, even without the aid of the band of Orcs that is even now approaching behind me. Perhaps I will save my strength, and simply sweep you all off the side of this ridiculous mountain with my wings."
"You don't have any wings," said Glorfindel.
The Balrog reared up, shadows coalescing about him like a cloak. "What do you call these?" he roared.
"A very pretty special effect. No doubt it's quite frightening to any mortals you might encounter, but we of the Eldalie are not susceptible to such primitive manipulation."
"I say they are wings!" shouted the Balrog.
"Prove it," said Glorfindel. "Can you actually fly with them?"
"Just you watch," said the Balrog. He took a step forward, shadow still churning around him, and fell off the spire, plummeting into the emptiness below.
What an embarassing way to win a duel, thought Glorfindel. If I don't play dead for an Age or two, I'll never hear the end of it.