Lord of Light

IV

It is told how the Lord of Light descended into the Well of the Demons, to make there a bargain with the chief of the Rakasha. He dealt in good faith, but the Rakasha are the Rakasha. That is to say, they are malefic creatures, possessed of great powers, life-span and the ability to assume nearly any shape. The Rakasha are almost indestructible. Their chiefest lack is a true body; their chiefest virtue, their honor toward their gambling debts. That the Lord of Light went to Hellwell at all serves to show that perhaps he was somewhat distraught concerning the state of the world. . .

Hellwell lies at the top of the world and it leads down to its roots.

It is probably as old as the world itself; and if it is not, it should be, because it looks as if it were.

It begins with a doorway. There is a huge, burnished metal door, erected by the First, that is heavy as sin, three times the height of a man and half that distance in width. It is a full cubit thick and bears a head-sized ring of brass, a complicated pressure-plate lock and an inscription that reads, roughly, “Go away. This is not a place to be. If you do try to enter here, you will fail and also be cursed. If somehow you succeed, then do not complain that you entered unwarned, nor bother us with your deathbed prayers.” Signed, “The Gods.”

It is set near the peak of a very high mountain named Channa, in the midst of a region of very high mountains called the Ratnagaris. In that place there is always snow upon the ground, and rainbows ride like fur on the backs of icicles, which sprout about the frozen caps of cliffs. The air is sharp as a sword. The sky is bright as the eye of a cat.

Very few feet have ever trod the trail that leads to Hellwell. Of those who visited, most came only to look, to see whether the great door really existed; and when they returned home and told of having seen it, they were generally mocked.

Telltale scratches about the lock plate testify that some have actually sought entrance. Equipment sufficient to force the great door could not be transported or properly positioned, however. The trail that leads to Hellwell is less than ten inches in width for the final three hundred feet of its ascent; and perhaps six men could stand, with crowding, upon what remains of the once wide ledge that faces that door.

It is told that Pannalal the Sage, having sharpened his mind with meditation and divers asceticisms, had divined the operation of the lock and entered Hellwell, spending a day and a night beneath the mountain. He was thereafter known as Pannalal the Mad.

The peak known as Channa, which holds the great door, is removed by five days’ journey from a small village. This is within the far northern kingdom of Malwa. This mountain village nearest to Channa has no name itself, being filled with a fierce and independent people who have no special desire that their town appear on the maps of the rajah’s tax collectors. Of the rajah, it is sufficient to tell that he is of middle height and middle years, shrewd, slightly stout, neither pious nor more than usually notorious and fabulously wealthy. He is wealthy because he levies high taxes upon his subjects. When his subjects begin to complain, and murmurs of revolt run through the realm, he declares war upon a neighboring kingdom and doubles the taxes. If the war does not go well, he executes several generals and has his Minister of Peace negotiate a treaty. If, by some chance, it goes especially well, he exacts tribute for whatever insult has caused the entire affair. Usually, though, it ends in a truce, souring his subjects on fighting and reconciling them to the high tax rate. His name is Videgha and he has many children. He is fond of grak-birds, which can be taught to sing bawdy songs, of snakes, to which he occasionally feeds grak-birds who cannot carry a tune, and of gaming with dice. He does not especially like children.

Hellwell begins with the great doorway high in the mountains at the northernmost corner of Videgha’s kingdom, beyond which there are no other kingdoms of men. It begins there, and it corkscrews down through the heart of the mountain Channa, breaking, like a corkscrew, into vast cavernways uncharted by men, extending far beneath the Ratnagari range, the deepest passageways pushing down toward the roots of the world.

To this door came the traveler.

He was simply dressed, and he traveled alone, and he seemed to know exactly where he was going and what he was doing.

He climbed the trail up Channa, edging his way across its gaunt face.

It took him the better part of the morning to reach his destination, the door.

When he stood before it, he rested a moment, took a drink from his water bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiled.

Then he sat down with his back against the door and ate his lunch. When he had finished, he threw the leaf wrappings over the edge and watched them fall, drifting from side to side on the air currents, until they were out of sight. He lit his pipe then and smoked.

After he had rested, he stood and faced the door once again.

His hand fell upon the pressure plate, moved slowly through a series of gestures. There was a musical sound from within the door as his hand left the plate.

Then he seized upon the ring and drew back, his shoulder muscles straining. The door moved, slowly at first, then more rapidly. He stepped aside and it swung outward, passing beyond the ledge.

There was another ring, twin to the first, on the inner surface of the door. He caught at it as it passed him, dragging his heels to keep it from swinging so far as to place it beyond his reach.

A rush of warm air emerged from the opening at his back.

Drawing the door closed again behind him, he paused only to light one of the many torches he bore. Then he advanced along a corridor that widened as he moved ahead.

The floor slanted abruptly, and after a hundred paces the ceiling was so high as to be invisible.

After two hundred paces, he stood upon the lip of the well.

He was now in the midst of a vast blackness shot through with the flames of his torch. The walls had vanished, save for the one behind him and to the right. The floor ended a short distance before him.

Beyond that edge was what appeared to be a bottomless pit. He could not see across it, but he knew it to be roughly circular in shape; and he knew, too, that it widened in circumference as it descended.

He made his way down along the trail that wound about the well wall, and he could feel the rush of warm air rising from out of the depths. This trail was artificial. One could feel this, despite its steepness. It was precarious and it was narrow; it was cracked in many places, and in spots rubble had accumulated upon it. But its steady, winding slant bespoke the fact that there was purpose and pattern to its existence.

He moved along this trail, carefully. To his left was the wall. To his right there was nothing.

After what seemed an age and a half, he sighted a tiny flicker of light far below him, hanging in midair.

The curvature of the wall, however, gradually bent his way so that this light no longer hung in the distance, but lay below and slightly to his right.

Another twisting of the trail set it directly ahead of him.

When he passed the niche in the wall wherein the flame was cached, he heard a voice within his mind cry out:

“Free me, master, and I will lay the world at thy feet!”

But he hurried by, not even glancing at the almost-face within the opening.

Floating upon the ocean of black that lay beneath his feet, there were more lights now visible.

The well continued to widen. It was filled with brightening glimmers, like flame, but not flame; filled with shapes, faces, half-remembered images. From each there rose up a cry as he passed: “Free me! Free me!”

But he did not halt.

He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.

It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it was the blue of a sapphire’s heart.

It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against an invisible barrier.

During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that open into the well bottom.

Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was, and flame it remained.

He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.

“So, Hated One, you have returned!”

The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced the blue flame then and replied:

“You are called Taraka?”

“He who bound me here should know what I am called,” came the words. “Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being — not the flesh that masks them.”

“I see,” replied the other.

“Do you come to mock me in my prison?”

“Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?”

“No, you did not.”

“I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed them.”

“You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new indignity would you lay upon us?”

“Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Allies.”

“You want us to take your part in a struggle?”

“That is correct.”

“And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again.”

“Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand.”

“Speak to me your terms,” said the flame.

“In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the streets of the Celestial City.”

“That is true.”

“It is better fortified now.”

“In what ways?”

“Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the whole of Heaven, rather than just the City — as it was in days of old — with what is said to be an impenetrable dome.”

“There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome.”

“I say only what I have heard.”

“There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha.”

“You will find them all for me?”

“That is to be the price of my freedom?”

“Of your own freedom — yes.”

“What of the others of my kind?”

“If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege to that City and take it.”

“Free us, and Heaven shall fall!”

“You speak for the others?”

“I am Taraka. I speak for all.”

“What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?”

“My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name —”

“A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all. You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here.”

“You possess the power to control us.”

“Individually, perhaps. But not collectively.”

“It is a difficult problem,” said Taraka. “I should give anything I have to be free — but then, all that I have is power — pure power, in essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my promise will be kept. If I were you, I certainly would not trust me.”

“It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now — you alone — to visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return an equitable arrangement can be made.”

“Accepted! Release me from this doom!”

“Know then my power, Taraka,” he said. “As I bind, so can I loose — thus!”

The flame boiled forward out of the wall.

It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.

Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending down its throbbing words upon him:

“You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I’ve a mind to try your power once more.”

The man beneath him shrugged.

The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly settled to the floor.

It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom; then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the niche.

“Are you satisfied?” asked Siddhartha.

“Yes,” came the reply, after a time. “Your power is undimmed. Binder. Free me once more.”

“I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I’d best leave you as you are and seek assistance elsewhere.”

“No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?”

“I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide by your choice — and your word.”

“Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice, and report back to you of its weaknesses.”

“Then go!”

This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on a roughly human outline.

“What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?” it asked him.

“Call it electrodirection,” said the other, “mind over energy. It is as good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again. I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon you. Go now!”

Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.

He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind — promising, tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. “Free us, free us,” they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing. Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face, spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.

“Free us — or infinite will be thy agony!” cried the voices.

“If you persist,” he stated, “Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess.”

Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.

He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.

Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported to him:

“Those of my kind may enter through the air vents,” he said, “but men may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart.”

“Very well,” said Siddhartha. “I’ve a kingdom, some weeks’ journey hence, where I rule. A regent has been seated in my place for many years, but if I return there I can raise me an army. A new religion moves now across the land. Men may now think less of the gods than once they did.”

“You wish to sack Heaven?”

“Yes, I wish to lay open its treasures to the world.”

“This is to my liking. It will not be easily won, but with an army of men and an army of my kind we should be able to do it. Let us free my people now, that we may begin.”

“I believe I will simply have to trust you,” said Siddhartha. “So yes, let us begin,” and he moved across the floor of Hellwell toward the first deep tunnel beading downward.

That day he freed sixty-five of them, filling the caverns with their color and their movement and their light. The air sounded with mighty cries of joy and the noise of their passage as they swept about Hellwell, changing shape constantly and exulting in their freedom.

Without warning, then, one took upon itself the form of a flying serpent and swept down toward him, talons outstretched and slashing.

For a moment, his full attention lay upon it.

It uttered a brief, broken cry, and then it came apart, falling in a shower of blue-white sparks.

Then these faded, and it was utterly vanished.

There was silence in the caverns, and the lights pulsed and dipped about the walls.

Siddhartha directed his attention toward the largest point of light, Taraka.

“Did that one attack me in order to test my strength?” he inquired. “To see whether I can also kill, in the manner I told you I could?”

Taraka approached, hovered before him. “It was not by my bidding that he attacked,” he stated. “I feel that he was half crazed from his confinement.”

Siddhartha shrugged. “For a time now, disport yourselves as you would,” he said. “I would have rest from this task,” and he departed the smaller cavern.

He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his blanket and dozed.

There came a dream.

He was running.

His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.

It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline. Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer: overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.

Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain over which he fled.

He knew that it was now his own shadow.

The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.

He knew that he was his own doom.

Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud, wanting really to scream.

When he awoke again, he was walking.

He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.

As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.

Again, each cried out to him as he went by:

“Free us, masters!”

And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a thawing.

Masters.

Plural. Not singular.

Masters, they had said.

He knew then that he did not walk alone.

None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about him, below him.

The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had freed were gone.

Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way. But still, he saw.

He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.

He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.

And he had been addressed in the plural.

And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.

He made an effort to halt, to stand still.

He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips moved, forming the words:

“You have awakened, I see. Good morning.”

A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately through his own mouth:

“Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder — in your own body?”

Siddhartha formed another thought:

“I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me against my will — even as I slept.”

“To give you an honest answer,” said the other, “neither did I. But then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed to be worth the attempt.”

“And of the others? Where are they?”

“Gone. To wander the world until I summon them.”

“And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would have freed them also.”

“What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What else matters?”

“I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?”

“Not so,” replied the demon. “We shall return to this matter in, say, a lesser moon or so. The idea does appeal to me. I feel that a war with the gods would be a very excellent thing. But first I wish to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh for a time. Why should you begrudge me a little entertainment after the centuries of boredom and imprisonment you have wrought?”

“I must admit, however, that I do begrudge you this use of my person.”

“Whatever the case, you must, for a time, put up with it. You, too, shall be in a position to enjoy what I enjoy, so why not make the best of it?”

“You state that you do intend to war against the gods?”

“Yes indeed. I wish I had thought of it myself in the old days. Perhaps, then, we should never have been bound. Perhaps there would no longer be men or gods upon this world. We were never much for concerted action, though. Independence of spirit naturally accompanies our independence of person. Each fought his own battles in the general conflict with mankind. I am a leader, true — by virtue of the fact that I am older and stronger and wiser than the others. They come to me for counsel, they serve me when I order them. But I have never ordered them all into battle. I shall, though, later. The novelty will do much to relieve the monotony.”

“I suggest you do not wait, for there will be no ‘later’, Taraka.”

“Why not?”

“I came to Hellwell, the wrath of the gods swarming and buzzing at my back. Now sixty-six demons are loose in the world. Very soon, your presence will be felt. The gods will know who has done this thing, and they will take steps against us. The element of surprise will be lost.”

“We fought the gods in the days of old . . .”

“And these are not the days of old, Taraka. The gods are stronger now, much stronger. Long have you been bound, and their might has grown over the ages. Even if you command the first army of Rakasha in history, and backing them in battle I raise me up a mighty army of men — even then, will the final result be a thing uncertain. To delay now is to throw everything away.”

“I wish you would not speak to me like this, Siddhartha, for you trouble me.”

“I mean to. For all your powers, if you meet the One in Red he will drink your life with his eyes. He will come here to the Ratnagaris, for he follows me. The freedom of demons is as a signpost, directing him hither. He may bring others with him. You may find them more than a match for all of you.”

The demon did not reply. They reached the top of the well, and Taraka advanced the two hundred paces to the great door, which now stood open. He stepped out onto the ledge and looked downward.

“You doubt the power of the Rakasha, eh. Binder?” he asked. Then, “Behold!”

He stepped outward, over the edge.

They did not fall.

They drifted, like the leaves he had dropped — how long ago?

Downward.

They landed upon the trail halfway down the mountain called Channa.

“Not only do I contain your nervous system,” said Taraka, “but I have permeated your entire body and wrapped it all about with the energies of my being. So send me your One in Red, who drinks life with his eyes. I should like to meet him.”

“Though you can walk on air,” said Siddhartha, “you speak rashly when you speak thus.”

“The Prince Videgha holds his court not far from here, at Palamaidsu,” said Taraka, “for I visited there on my return from Heaven. I understand he is fond of gaming. Therefore, thither fare we.”

“And if the God of Death should come to join the game?”

“Let him!” cried the other. “You cease to amuse me, Binder. Good night. Go back to sleep!”

There was a small darkness and a great silence, growing and shrinking.

The days that followed were bright fragments.

There would come to him snatches of conversation or song, colorful vistas of galleries, chambers, gardens. And once he looked upon a dungeon where men were hung upon racks, and he heard himself laughing.

Between these fragments there came to him dreams and half dreams. They were lighted with fire, they ran with blood and tears. In a darkened, endless cathedral he rolled dice that were suns and planets. Meteors broke fire above his head, and comets inscribed blazing arcs upon a vault of black glass. There came to him a joy shot through with fear, and he knew it to be mainly that of another, but it was partly his, too. The fear — that was all his.

When Taraka drank too much wine, or lay panting on his wide, low couch in the harem, then was his grip loosened somewhat, upon the body that he had stolen. But Siddhartha was still weak with the mind-bruise, and his body was drunk or fatigued; and he knew that the time had not yet come to contest the mastery of the demon-lord.

There were times when he saw, not through the eyes of the body that had once been his, but saw as a demon saw, in all directions, and stripped flesh and bone from those among whom he passed, to behold the flames of their beings, colored with the hues and shades of their passions, flickering with avarice and lust and envy, darting with greed and hunger, smouldering with hate, waning with fear and pain. His hell was a many-colored place, somewhat mitigated only by the cold blue blaze of a scholar’s intellect, the white light of a dying monk, the rose halo of a noble lady who fled his sight, and the dancing, simple colors of children at play.

He stalked the high halls and wide galleries of the royal palace at Palamaidsu, which were his winnings. The Prince Videgha lay in chains in his own dungeon. Throughout the kingdom, his subjects were not aware that a demon now sat upon the throne. Things seemed to be the same as they had always been. Siddhartha had visions of riding through the streets of the town on the back of an elephant. All the women of the town had been ordered to stand before the doors of their dwellings. Of these, he chose those who pleased him and had them taken back to his harem. Siddhartha realized, with a sudden shock, that he was assisting in the choosing, disputing with Taraka over the virtues of this or that matron, maid or lady. He had been touched by the lusts of the demon-lord, and they were becoming his own. With this realization, he came into a greater wakefulness, and it was not always the hand of the demon which raised the wine horn to his lips, or twitched the whip in the dungeon. He came to be conscious for greater periods of time, and with a certain horror he knew that, within himself, as within every man, there lies a demon capable of responding to his own kind.

Then, one day, he fought the power that ruled his body and bent his mind. He had largely recovered, and he coexisted with Taraka in all his doings, both as silent watcher and active participant.

They stood on the balcony above the garden, looking out across the day. Taraka had, with a single gesture, turned all the flowers black. Lizardlike creatures had come to dwell in the trees and the ponds, croaking and flitting among the shadows. The incenses and perfumes which filled the air were thick and cloying. Dark smokes coiled like serpents along the ground.

There had been three attempts upon his life. The captain of the palace guard had been the last to try. But his blade had turned to a reptile in his hand and struck at his face, taking out his eyes and filling his veins with a venom that had caused him to darken and swell, to die crying for a drink of water.

Siddhartha considered the ways of the demon, and in that moment he struck.

His power had grown again, slowly, since that day in Hellwell when last he had wielded it. Oddly independent of the brain of his body, as Yama had once told him, the power turned like a slow pinwheel at the center of the space that was himself.

It spun again faster, and he hurled it against the force of the other.

A cry escaped Taraka, and a counterthrust of pure energy came back at Siddhartha like a spear.

Partly, he managed to deflect it, to absorb some of its force. Still, there was pain and turmoil within him as the brunt of the attack touched upon his being.

He did not pause to consider the pain, but struck again, as a spearman strikes into the darkened burrow of a fearsome beast.

Again, he heard his lips cry out.

Then the demon was building black walls against his power.

But one by one, these walls fell before his onslaught.

And as they fought, they spoke:

“Oh man of many bodies,” said Taraka, “why do you begrudge me a few days within this one? It is not the body you were born into, and you, too, do but borrow it for a time. Why then, do you feel my touch to be a thing of defilement? One day you may wear another body, untouched by me. So why do you consider my presence a pollution, a disease? Is it because there is that within you which is like unto myself? Is it because you, too, know delight in the ways of the Rakasha, tasting the pain you cause like a pleasure, working your will as you choose upon whatsoever you choose? Is it because of this? Because you, too, know and desire these things, but also bear that human curse called guilt? If it is, I mock you in your weakness, Binder. And I shall prevail against you.”

“It is because I am what I am, demon,” said Siddhartha, hurling his energies back at him. “It is because I am a man who occasionally aspires to things beyond the belly and the phallus. I am not not the saint the Buddhists think me to be, and I am not the hero out of legend. I am a man who knows much fear, and who occasionally feels guilt. Mainly, though, I am a man who has set out to do a thing, and you are now blocking my way. Thus you inherit my curse — whether I win or whether I lose now, Taraka, your destiny has already been altered. This is the curse of the Buddha — you will never again be the same as once you were.”

And all that day they stood upon the balcony, garments drenched with perspiration. Like a statue they stood, until the sun had gone down out of the sky and the golden trail divided the dark bowl of the night. A moon leapt up above the garden wall. Later, another joined it.

“What is the curse of the Buddha?” Taraka inquired, over and over again. But Siddhartha did not reply.

He had beaten down the final wall, and they fenced now with energies like flights of blazing arrows.

From a Temple in the distance there came the monotonous beating of a drum, and occasionally a garden creature croaked, a bird cried out or a swarm of insects settled upon them, fed, and swirled away.

Then, like a shower of stars, they came, riding upon the night wind . . . the Freed of Hellwell, the other demons who had been loosed upon the world.

They came in answer to Taraka’s summons, adding their powers to his own.

He became as a whirlwind, a tidal wave, a storm of lightnings.

Siddhartha felt himself swept over by a titanic avalanche, crushed, smothered, buried.

The last thing he knew was the laughter within his throat.

How long it was before he recovered, he did not know. It was a slow thing this time, and it was in a palace where demons walked as servants that he woke up.

When the last anesthetic bonds of mental fatigue fell away, there was strangeness about him. The grotesque revelries continued. Parties were held in the dungeons, where the demons would animate corpses to pursue their victims and embrace them. Dark miracles were wrought, such as the grove of twisted trees which sprang from the marble flags of the throne room itself — a grove wherein men slept without awakening, crying out as old nightmares gave way to new. But a different strangeness had entered the palace.

Taraka was no longer pleased.

“What is the curse of the Buddha?” he inquired again, as he felt Siddhartha’s presence pressing once more upon his own.

Siddhartha did not reply at once.

The other continued, “I feel that I will give you back your body one day soon. I grow tired of this sport, of this palace. I grow tired, and I think perhaps the day draws near when we should make war with Heaven. What say you to this. Binder? I told you I would keep my word.”

Siddhartha did not answer him.

“My pleasures diminish by the day! Do you know why this is, Siddhartha? Can you tell me why strange feelings now come over me, dampening my strongest moments, weakening me and casting me down when I should be elated, when I should be filled with joy? Is this the curse of the Buddha?”

“Yes,” said Siddhartha.

“Then lift your curse, Binder, and I will depart this very day. I will give you back this cloak of flesh. I long again for the cold, clean winds of the heights! Will you free me now?”

“It is too late, oh chief of the Rakasha. You have brought this thing upon yourself.”

“What thing? How have you bound me this time?”

“Do you recall how, when we strove upon the balcony, you mocked me? You told me that I, too, took pleasure in the ways of the pain which you work. You were correct, for all men have within them both that which is dark and that which is light. A man is a thing of many divisions, not a pure, clear flame such as you once were. His intellect often wars with his emotions, his will with his desires . . . his ideals are at odds with his environment, and if he follows them, he knows keenly the loss of that which was old — but if he does not follow them, he feels the pain of having forsaken a new and noble dream. Whatever he does represents both a gain and a loss, an arrival and a departure. Always he mourns that which is gone and fears some part of that which is new. Reason opposes tradition. Emotions oppose the restrictions his fellow men lay upon him. Always, from the friction of these things, there arises the thing you called the curse of man and mocked — guilt!

“Know then, that as we existed together in the same body and I partook of your ways, not always unwillingly, the road we followed was not one upon which all the traffic moved in a single direction. As you twisted my will to your workings, so was your will twisted, in turn, by my revulsion at some of your deeds. You have learned the thing called guilt, and it will ever fall as a shadow across your meat and your drink. This is why your pleasure has been broken. This is why you seek now to flee. But it will do you no good. It will follow you across the world. It will rise with you into the realms of the cold, clean winds. It will pursue you wherever you go. This is the curse of the Buddha.”

Taraka covered his face with his hands. “So this is what it is like to weep,” he said, after a time.

Siddhartha did not reply.

“Curse you, Siddhartha,” he said. “You have bound me again, to an even more terrible prison than Hellwell.”

“You have bound yourself. It is you who broke our pact. I kept it.”

“Men suffer when they break pacts with demons,” said Taraka, “but no Rakasha has ever suffered so before.”

Siddhartha did not reply.

On the following morning, as he sat to breakfast, there came a banging upon the door of his chambers.

“Who dares?” he cried out, and the door burst inward, its hinges tearing free of the wall, its bar snapping like a dry stick.

The head of a horned tiger upon the shoulders of an ape, great hooves for feet, talons for hands, the Rakasha fell forward into the room, smoke emerging from his mouth as he became transparent for a moment, returned to full visibility, faded once more, returned again. His talons were dripping something that was not blood and a wide burn lay across his chest. The air was filled with the odor of singed hair and charred flesh.

“Master!” it cried. “A stranger has come, asking audience of thee!”

“And you did not succeed in convincing him that I was not available?”

“Lord, a score of human guardsmen fell upon him, and he gestured. . . . He waved his hand at them, and there was a flash of light so bright that even the Rakasha might not look upon it. For an instant only it lasted — and they were all of them vanished, as if they had never existed. . . . There was also a large hole in the wall behind where they had stood. . . . There was no rubble. Only a smooth, clean hole.”

“And then you fell upon him?”

“Many of the Rakasha sprang for him — but there is that about him which repels us. He gestured again and three of our own kind were gone, vanished in the light he hurls. . . . I did not take the full force of it, but was only grazed by his power. He sent me, therefore, to deliver his message. . . . I can no longer hold myself together—”

With that he vanished, and a globe of fire hung where the creature had lain. Now his words came into the mind, rather than being spoken across the air.

“He bids you come to him without delay. Else, he says he will destroy this palace.”

“Did the three whom he burnt also take on again their own forms?”

“No,” replied the Rakasha. “They are no more . . .”

“Describe this stranger!” ordered Siddhartha, forcing the words through his own lips.

“He stands very tall,” said the demon, “and he wears black breeches and boots. Above the waist he has on him a strange garment. It is like a seamless white glove, upon his right hand only, which extends all the way up his arm and across his shoulders, wrapping his neck and rising tight and smooth about his entire head. Only the lower part of his face is visible, for he wears over his eyes large black lenses which extend half a span outward from his face. At his belt he wears a short sheath of the same white material as the garment — not containing a dagger, however, but a wand. Beneath the material of his garment, where it crosses his shoulders and comes up upon his neck, there is a hump, as if he wears there a small pack.”

“Lord Agni!” said Siddhartha. “You have described the God of Fire!”

“Aye, this must be,” said the Rakasha. “For as I looked beyond his flesh, to see the colors of his true being, I saw there a blaze like unto the heart of the sun. If there be a God of Fire, then this indeed is he.”

“Now must we flee,” said Siddhartha, “for there is about to be a great burning. We cannot fight with this one, so let us go quickly.”

“I do not fear the gods,” said Taraka, “and I should like to try the power of this one.”

“You cannot prevail against the Lord of Flame,” said Siddhartha. “His fire wand is invincible. It was given him by the deathgod.”

“Then I shall wrest it from him and turn it against him.”

“None may wield it without being blinded and losing a hand in the process! This is why he wears that strange garment. Let us waste no more time here!”

“I must see for myself,” said Taraka. “I must.”

“Do not let your new found guilt force you into flirting with self-destruction.”

“Guilt?” said Taraka. “That puny, gnawing mind-rat of which you taught me? No, it is not guilt, Binder. It is that, where once I was supreme, save for yourself, new powers have arisen in the world. The gods were not this strong in the old days, and if they have indeed grown in power, then that power must be tested — by myself! It is of my nature, which is power, to fight every new power which arises, and to either triumph over it or be bound by it. I must test the strength of Lord Agni, to win over him.”

“But we are two within this body!”

“That is true. . . . If this body be destroyed, then will I bear you away with me, I promise. Already have I strengthened your flames after the manner of my own land. If this body dies, you will continue to live as a Rakasha. Our people once wore bodies, too, and I remember the art of strengthening the flames so that they may burn independent of the body. This has been done for you, so do not fear.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Now let us confront the flame, and dampen it!”

They left the royal chambers and descended the stair. Far below, prisoner in his own dungeon. Prince Videgha whimpered in his sleep.

They emerged from the door that lay behind the hangings at the back of the throne. When they pushed aside these hangings, they saw that the great hall was empty, save for the sleepers within the dark grove and the one who stood in the middle of the floor, white arm folded over bare arm, a silver wand caught between the fingers of his gloved hand.

“See how he stands?” said Siddhartha. “He is confident of his power, and justly so. He is Agni of the Lokapalas. He can see to the farthest unobstructed horizon, as though it lies at his fingertips. And he can reach that far. He is said one night to have scored the moons themselves with that wand. If he but touch its base against a contact within his glove, the Universal Fire will leap forward with a blinding brilliance, obliterating matter and dispersing energies which lie in its path. It is still not too late to withdraw—”

“Agni!” he heard his mouth cry out. “You have requested audience with the one who rules here?”

The black lenses turned toward him. Agni’s lips curled back to vanish into a smile which dissolved into words:

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, his voice nasal and penetrating. “All that holiness got to be too much and you had to cut loose, eh? Shall I call you Siddhartha, or Tathagatha, or Mahasamatman — or just plain Sam?”

“You fool,” he replied. “The one who was known to you as the Binder of Demons — by all or any of those names — is bound now himself. You have the privilege of addressing Taraka of the Rakasha, Lord of Hellwell!”

There was a click, and the lenses became red.

“Yes, I perceive the truth of what you say,” answered the other. “I look upon a case of demonic possession. Interesting. Doubtless cramped, also.” He shrugged, and then added, “But I can destroy two as readily as one.”

“Think you so?” inquired Taraka, raising both arms before him.

As he did, there was a rumbling and the black wood spread in an instant across the floor, engulfing the one who stood there, its dark branches writhing about him. The rumbling continued, and the floor moved several inches beneath their feet. From overhead, there came a creaking and the sound of snapping stone. Dust and gravel began to fall.

Then there was a blinding flash of light and the trees were gone, leaving short stumps and blackened smudges upon the floor.

With a groan and a mighty crash, the ceiling fell.

As they stepped back through the door that lay behind the throne, they saw the figure, which still stood in the center of the hall, raise his wand directly above his head and move it in a tiny circle.

A cone of brilliance shot upward, dissolving everything it touched. A smile still lay upon Agni’s lips as the great stones rained down, none falling anywhere near him.

The rumbling continued, and the floor cracked and the walls began to sway.

They slammed the door and Sam felt a rushing giddiness as the window, which a moment before had lain at the far end of the corridor, flashed past him.

They coursed upward and outward through the heavens, and a tingling, bubbling feeling filled his body, as though he were a being of liquid through whom an electrical current was passing.

Looking back, with the sight of the demon who saw in all directions, he beheld Palamaidsu, already so distant that it could have been framed and hung upon the wall as a painting. On the high hill at the center of the town, the palace of Videgha was falling in upon itself, and great streaks of brilliance, like reversed lightning bolts, were leaping from the ruin into the heavens.

“That is your answer, Taraka,” he said. “Shall we go back and try his power again?”

“I had to find out,” said the demon.

“Now let me warn you further. I did not jest when I said that he can see to the farthest horizon. If he should free himself soon and turn his glance in this direction, he will detect us. I do not think you can move faster than light, so I suggest you fly lower and utilize the terrain for cover.”

“I have rendered us invisible, Sam.”

“The eyes of Agni can see deeper into the red and farther into the violet ranges than can those of a man.”

They lost altitude then, rapidly. Before Palamaidsu, however, Sam saw that the only evidence which remained of the palace of Videgha was a cloud of dust upon a gray hillside.

Moving like a whirlwind, they sped far into the north, until at last the Ratnagaris lay beneath them. When they came to the mountain called Channa, they drifted down past its peak and came to a landing upon the ledge before the opened entrance to Hellwell.

They stepped within and closed the door.

“Pursuit will follow,” said Sam, “and even Hellwell will not stand against it.”

“How confident they are of their power,” said Taraka, “to send only one!”

“Do you feel that confidence to be unwarranted?”

“No,” said Taraka. “But what of the One in Red of whom you spoke, who drinks life with his eyes? Did you not think they would send Lord Yama, rather than Agni?”

“Yes,” said Sam, as they moved back toward the well, “I was sure that he would follow, and I still feel that he will. When last I saw him, I caused him some distress. I feel he would hunt me anywhere. Who knows, he may even now be lying in ambush at the bottom of Hellwell itself.”

They came to the lip of the well and entered upon the trail.

“He does not wait within,” Taraka announced. “I would even now be contacted by those who wait, bound, if any but the Rakasha had passed this way.”

“He will come,” said Sam, “and when the Red One comes to Hellwell, he will not be stayed in his course.”

“But many will try,” said Taraka. “There is the first.”

The first flame came into view, in its niche beside the trail.

As they passed by, Sam freed it, and it sprang into the air like a bright bird and spiraled down the well.

Step by step they descended, and from each niche fire spilled forth and flowed outward. At Taraka’s bidding, some rose and vanished over the edge of the well, departing through the mighty door which bore the words of the gods upon its outer face.

When they reached the bottom of the well, Taraka said, “Let us free those who lie locked in the caverns, also.”

So they made their way through the passages and deep caverns, freeing the demons locked therein.

Then, after a time — how much time, he could never tell — they had all been freed.

The Rakasha assembled then about the cavern, standing in great phalanxes of flame, and their cries all came together into one steady, ringing note which rolled and rolled and beat within his head, until he realized, startled at the thought, that they were singing.

“Yes,” said Taraka, “it is the first time in ages that they have done so.”

Sam listened to the vibrations within his skull, catching something of the meaning behind the hiss and the blaze, the feelings that accompanied it falling into words and stresses that were more familiar to his own mind:

Sam shuddered as they sang on and on, recounting their vanished glories, confident of their ability to outlast any circumstance, to meet any force with the cosmic judo of a push and a tug and a long wait, watching anything of which they disapproved turn its strength upon itself and pass. Almost, in that moment, he believed that what they sang was truth, and that one day there would be none but the Rakasha, flitting above the peeked landscape of a dead world.

Then he turned his mind to other matters and forced the mood from him. But in the days that followed, and even, on occasion, years afterward, it returned to plague his efforts and mock his joys, to make him wonder, know guilt, feel sadness and so be humbled.

After a time, one of the Rakasha who had left earlier re-entered and descended the well. He hovered in the air and reported what he had seen. As he spoke, his fires flowed into the shape of a tau cross.

“This is the form of that chariot,” he said, “which blazed through the sky and then fell, coming to rest in the valley beyond Southpeak.”

“Binder, do you know this vessel?” asked Taraka.

“I have heard it described before,” said Sam. “It is the thunder chariot of Lord Shiva.

“Describe its occupant,” he said to the demon.

“There were four. Lord.”

“Four?”

“Yes. There is the one you have described as Agni, Lord of the Fires. With him is one who wears the horns of a bull set upon a burnished helm — his armor shows like aged bronze, but it is not bronze; it is worked about with the forms of many serpents, and it does not seem to burden him as he moves. In his one hand he holds a gleaming trident, and he bears no shield before his body.”

“This one is Shiva,” said Sam.

“And walking with these two there comes one all in red, whose gaze is dark. This one does not speak, but occasionally his glances fall upon the woman who walks by his side, to his left. She is fair of hair and complexion, and her armor matches his red. Her eyes are like the sea, and she smiles often with lips the color of the blood of men. About her throat she wears a necklace of skulls. She bears a bow, and upon her belt is a short sword. She holds in her hands a strange instrument, like a black scepter ending in a silver skull that is also a wheel.”

“These two be Yama and Kali,” said Sam. “Now hear me, Taraka, mightiest of the Rakasha, while I tell you what moves against us. The power of Agni you know full well, and of the One in Red have I already spoken. Now, she who walks at the left hand of Death bears also the gaze that drinks the life it beholds. Her scepter-wheel screams like the trumpets that signalize the ending of the Yuga, and all who come before its wailing are cast down and confused. She is as much to be feared as her Lord, who is ruthless and invincible. But the one with the trident is the Lord of Destruction himself. It is true that Yama is King of the Dead and Agni Lord of the Flames, but the power of Shiva is the power of chaos. His is the force which separates atom from atom, breaking down the forms of all things upon which he turns it. Against these four, the freed might of Hellwell itself cannot stand. Therefore, let us depart this place immediately, for they are most assuredly coming here.”

“Did I not promise you, Binder,” said Taraka, “that I would help you to fight the gods?”

“Yes, but that of which I spoke was to be a surprise attack. These have taken upon themselves their Aspects now, and have raised up their Attributes. Had they chosen, without even landing the thunder chariot, Channa would no longer exist, but in the place of this mountain there would be a deep crater, here in the midst of the Ratnagaris. We must flee, to fight them another day.”

“Do you remember the curse of the Buddha?” asked Taraka. “Do you remember how you taught me of guilt, Siddhartha? I remember, and I feel I owe you this victory. I owe you something for your pains, and I will give these gods into your hands in payment.”

“No! If you would serve me at all, do it at another time than this! Serve me now by bearing me away from this place, far and fast!”

“Are you afraid of this encounter. Lord Siddhartha?”

“Yes, yes I am! For it is foolhardy! What of your song—’We wait, we wait, to rise again!’? Where is the patience of the Rakasha? You say you will wait for the seas to dry and the mountains to fall, for the moons to vanish from the sky — but you cannot wait for me to name the time and the battlefield! I know them far better than you, these gods, for once I was one of them. Do not do this rash thing now. If you would serve me, save me from this meeting!”

“Very well. I hear you, Siddhartha. Your words move me, Sam. But I would try their strength. So I shall send some of the Rakasha against them. But we shall journey far, you and I, far down to the roots of the world. There we will await the report of victory. If, somehow, the Rakasha should lose the encounter, then will I bear you far away from here and restore to you your body. I would wear it a few hours more, however, to savor your passions in this fighting.”

Sam bowed his head.

“Amen,” he said, and with a tingling, bubbling sensation, he felt himself lifted from the floor and borne along vast cavernways uncharted by men.

As they sped from chamber to vaulted chamber, down tunnels and chasms and wells, through labyrinths and grottoes and corridors of stone, Sam set his mind adrift, to move down the ways of memory and back. He thought upon the days of his recent ministry, when he had sought to graft the teachings of Gotama upon the stock of the religion by which the world was ruled. He thought upon the strange one, Sugata, whose hands had held both death and benediction. Over the years, their names would merge and their deeds would be mingled. He had lived too long not to know how time stirred the pots of legend. There had been a real Buddha, he knew that now. The teaching he had offered, no matter how spuriously, had attracted this true believer, this one who had somehow achieved enlightenment, marked men’s minds with his sainthood, and then gone willingly into the hands of Death himself. Tathagatha and Sugata would be part of a single legend, he knew, and Tathagatha would shine in the light shed by his disciple. Only the one Dhamma would survive. Then his mind went back to the battle at the Hall of Karma, and to the machinery still cached in a secret place. And he thought then upon the countless transfers he had undergone before that time, of the battles he had fought, of the women he had loved across the ages; he thought upon what a world could be and what this world was, and why. Then he was taken again with his rage against the gods. He thought upon the days when a handful of them had fought the Rakasha and the Nagas, the Gandharvas and the People-of-the-Sea, the Kataputna demons and the Mothers of the Terrible Glow, the Dakshinis and the Pretas, the Skandas and the Pisakas, and had won, tearing a world loose from chaos and building its first city of men. He had seen that city pass through all the stages through which a city can pass, until now it was inhabited by those who could spin their minds for a moment and transform themselves into gods, taking upon them an Aspect that strengthened their bodies and intensified their wills and extended the power of their desires into Attributes, which fell with a force like magic upon those against whom they turned them. He thought upon this city and these gods, and he knew of its beauty and its tightness, its ugliness and its wrongness. He thought of its splendor and its color, in contrast to that of the rest of the world, and he wept as he raged, for he knew that he could never feel either wholly right or wholly wrong in opposing it. This was why he had waited as long as he had, doing nothing. Now, whatever he did would result in both victory and defeat, a success and a failure; and whether the outcome of all his actions would be the passing or the continuance of the dream of the city, the burden of the guilt would be his.

They waited in darkness.

For a long, silent while they waited. Time passed like an old man climbing a hill. They stood upon a ledge above a black pool, and waited.

“Should we not have heard by now?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“What shall we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“If they do not come at all. How long shall we wait here?”

“They will come, singing.”

“I hope so.”

But there came no singing, or movement. About them was the stillness of time that had no objects upon which to wear.

“How long have we waited?”

“I do not know. Long.”

“I feel that all is not well.”

“You may be right. Shall we rise a few levels and investigate, or shall I bear you to your freedom now?”

“Let us wait awhile longer.”

“Very well.”

Again, there was silence. They paced within it.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“A sound.”

“I heard nothing and we are using the same ears.”

“Not with the ears of the body — there it is again!”

“I heard nothing, Taraka.”

“It continues. It is like a scream, but it does not end.”

“Far?”

“Yes, quite distant. Listen my way.”

“Yes! I believe it is the scepter of Kali. The battle, then, goes on.”

“This long? Then the gods are stronger than I had supposed.”

“No, the Rakasha are stronger than I had supposed.”

“Whether we win or lose, Siddhartha, the gods are presently engaged. If we can get by them, their vessel may be unattended. Do you want it?”

“Steal the thunder chariot? That is a thought. . . . It is a mighty weapon, as well as transportation. What might our chances be?”

“I am certain the Rakasha can hold them for as long as is necessary — and it is a long climb up Hellwell. We need not use the trail ourself. I grow tired, but I can still bear us across the air.”

“Let us rise a few levels and investigate.”

They left their ledge by the black pool, and time beat again about them as they passed upward.

As they advanced, a globe of light moved to meet them. It settled upon the floor of the cavern and grew into a tree of green fire.

“How goes the battle?” asked Taraka.

“We hold them,” it reported, “but we cannot close with them.”

“Why not?”

“There is that about them which repels. I do not know how to call it, but we cannot draw too near.”

“How then do you fight?”

“A steady storm of rocks rages about them. We hurl fire and water and great spinning winds, also.”

“And how do they respond to this?”

“The trident of Shiva cuts a path through everything. But no matter how much he destroys, we raise up more against him. So he stands like a statue, uncreating storms we will not let end. Occasionally, he swerves to kill, while the Lord of Fires holds back the attack. The scepter of the goddess slows those who face upon it. Once slowed, they meet the trident or the hand or the eyes of Death.”

“And you have not succeeded in harming them?”

“No.”

“Where do they stand?”

“Part way down the well wall. They are still near to the top. They descend slowly.”

“How many have we lost?”

“Eighteen.”

“Then it was a mistake to end our waiting to begin this battle. The cost is too high and nothing is being gained. . . . Sam, do you want to try for the chariot?”

“It is worth a risk. . . . Yes, let us try.”

“Go then,” he instructed the Rakasha who branched and swayed before him. “Go, and we shall follow more slowly. We will rise along the side of the wall opposite them. When we begin the ascent, redouble your attack. Occupy them entirely until we have passed. Hold them then to give us time in which to steal their chariot from the valley. When this has been accomplished, I will return to you in my true form and we can put an end to the fighting.”

“I obey,” replied the other, and he fell upon the floor to become a green serpent of light, and slithered off ahead of them.

They rushed forward, running part of the way, to conserve the strength of the demon for the final necessary thrust against gravitation. They had journeyed a great distance beneath the Ratnagaris, and the return trip seemed endless.

Finally, though, they came upon the floor of the well; and it was lighted sufficiently so that, even with the eyes of his body, Sam could see clearly about him. The noise was deafening. If he and Taraka had had to rely upon speech for communication, there would have been no communication.

Like some fantastic orchid upon an ebon bough, the fire bloomed upon the wall of the well. As Agni waved his wand, it changed its shape, writhing. In the air, like bright insects, danced the Rakasha. The rushing of winds was one loudness, and the rattling of many stones was another. Above it all was the ululating cry of the silver skull-wheel, which Kali waved like a fan before her face; and this was even more terrible when it rose beyond the range of hearing, but still screamed. Rocks split and melted and dissolved in midair, their white-hot fragments leaping like sparks from a forge, out and downward. They bounced and rolled, and glowed redly in the shadows of Hellwell. The surrounding walls of the well were pocked and gouged and scored in the places where the flame and the chaos had touched.

“Now,” said Taraka, “we go!”

They rose into the air and moved up the side of the well. The power of the Rakasha’s attack increased, to be answered with an intensified counterattack. Sam covered his ears with his hands, but it did no good against the burning needles behind his eyes, which stirred whenever the silver skull swept in his direction. A short distance to his left, a whole section of rock vanished abruptly.

“They have not detected us,” said Taraka.

“Yet,” answered Sam. “That accursed Fire god can look through a sea of ink to spot a shifting grain of sand. If he turns in this direction, I hope you can dodge his—”

“How was that?” asked Taraka, as they were suddenly forty feet higher and somewhat farther to the left.

They sped upward now, and a line of melting rock pursued them. Then this was interrupted as the demons set up a wailing and tore loose gigantic boulders, which they hurled upon the gods, with the accompaniment of hurricanes and sheets of fire. They reached the lip of the well, passed above it and scurried back out of range.

“We must go all the way around now, to reach the corridor which leads to the door.”

A Rakasha rose from out of the well and sped to their side.

“They retreat!” he cried. “The goddess has fallen. The One in Red supports her as they flee!”

“They do not retreat,” said Taraka. “They move to cut us off. Block their way! Destroy the trail! Hurry!”

The Rakasha dropped like a meteor back into the well.

“Binder, I grow tired. I do not know whether I can bear us from the ledge outside all the way to the ground below.”

“Can you manage it part of the way?”

“Yes.”

“That first three hundred feet or so where the trail is narrow?”

“I think so.”

“Good!”

They ran.

As they fled along the rim of Hellwell, another Rakasha rose up and kept pace with them.

“I report!” he cried. “We have destroyed the trail twice. Each time, the Lord of Flames has burnt a new one!”

“Then naught more can be done! Stay with us now! We need your assistance in another matter.”

It sped on ahead of them, a crimson wedge lighting their way.

They rounded the well and raced up the tunnel. When they reached its end, they hurled the door wide and stepped out onto the ledge. The Rakasha who had led the way slammed the door behind them, saying, “They pursue!”

Sam stepped over the ledge. As he fell, the door glowed for an instant, then melted above him.

With the help of the second Rakasha, they descended the entire distance to the base of Channa and moved up a trail and around a bend. The foot of a mountain now shielded them from the gods. But this rock was lashed with flame in an instant.

The second Rakasha shot high into the air, wheeled and vanished.

They ran along the trail, heading toward the valley that held the chariot. By the time they reached it, the Rakasha had returned.

“Kali and Yama and Agni descend,” he stated. “Shiva stays behind, holding the corridor. Agni leads the pursuit. The One in Red helps the goddess, who is limping.”

Before them, in the valley, lay the thunder chariot. Slim and unadorned, the color of bronze, though it was not bronze, it stood upon a wide, grassy plain. It looked like a fallen prayer tower or a giant’s house key or some necessary part of a celestial instrument of music that had slipped free of a starry constellation and dropped to the ground. It seemed to be somehow incomplete, although the eye could not fault its lines. It held that special beauty that belongs to the highest orders of weapons, requiring function to make it complete.

Sam moved to its side, found the hatch, entered.

“You can operate this chariot. Binder?” asked Taraka. “Make it race through the heavens, spitting destruction across the land?”

“I’m sure Yama would keep the controls as simple as possible. He streamlines whenever he can. I’ve flown the jets of Heaven before, and I’m banking that this is of the same order.”

He ducked into the cabin, settled into the control seat and stared at the panel before him.

“Damn!” he announced, his hand starting forward and twitching back.

The other Rakasha appeared suddenly, passing through the metal wall of the ship and hovering above the console.

“The gods move rapidly,” he announced. “Particularly Agni.”

Sam snapped a series of switches and pressed a button. Lights came on all over the instrument panel and a humming sound began within it.

“How far is he?” asked Taraka.

“Almost halfway down. He widened the trail with his flames. He runs upon it now, as if it were a roadway. He burn obstacles. He makes a clear path.”

Sam drew back on a lever and adjusted a dial, reading the indicators before him. A shudder ran through the ship.

“Are you ready?” asked Taraka.

“I can’t take off cold. It has to warm up. Also, this instrument board is trickier than I’d thought.”

“We run a close race.”

“Yes.”

From the distance, there came the sounds of several explosions rising above the growing growl of the chariot. Sam pulled the lever forward another notch, readjusted the dial.

“I go to slow them,” said the Rakasha, and vanished as he had come.

Sam drew the lever two notches farther, and somewhere something sputtered and died. The ship stood silent once more.

He pushed the lever back into its former position, spun the dial, pushed the button again.

And again a shudder ran through the chariot, and somewhere a purring began. Sam drew the lever one notch forward, adjusted the dial.

After a moment, he repeated it, and the purr became a soft growl.

“Gone,” said Taraka. “Dead.”

“Who? What?”

“The one who went to stop the Lord of Flames. He failed.”

There were more explosions.

“Hellwell is being destroyed,” said Taraka.

Perspiration upon his brow, Sam waited with his hand on the lever.

“He comes now — Agni!”

Sam looked through the long, slanted shield plate.

The Lord of Flames came into the valley.

“Good-bye, Siddhartha.”

“Not yet,” said Sam.

Agni looked at the chariot, raised his wand.

Nothing happened.

He stood, pointing the wand; and then he lowered it, shook it.

He raised it once more.

Again, no flame issued forth.

He reached behind his neck with his left hand, performed some adjustment upon his pack. As he did this, light streamed from the wand, burning a huge pit in the ground at his side.

He pointed the wand again.

Nothing.

Then he began running toward the ship.

“Electrodirection?” asked Taraka.

“Yes.”

Sam drew back upon the lever, adjusted the dial farther. A huge roaring grew about him. He pressed another button and there came a crackling sound from the rear of the vessel. He moved another dial as Agni reached the hatch.

There was a flash of flame and a metallic clanging.

He rose from his seat and moved out of the cabin and into the corridor.

Agni had entered, and he pointed the wand.

“Do not move — Sam! Demon!” he cried, above the roar of the engines; and as he spoke, his lenses clicked red and he smiled. “Demon,” he stated. “Do not move, or you and your host will burn together!”

Sam sprang upon him. Agni fell easily when he struck, for he had not believed that the other would reach him.

“Short circuit, eh?” said Sam, and hit him across the throat.

“Or sunspots?” and he struck him in the temple.

Agni fell to his side, and Sam hit him a final blow with the edge of his hand, just above the collarbone.

He kicked the wand the length of the corridor, and as he moved to close the hatch he knew that it was too late.

“Go now, Taraka,” he said. “This is my fight from here on. You can do nothing more.”

“I promised my assistance.”

“You have none to give, now. Get out while still you can.”

“If such is your will. But I have a final thing to say to you —”

“Save it! Next time I’m in the neighborhood—”

“Binder, it is this thing I learned of you — I am sorry. I—”

There was a terrible twisting, wrenching sensation within his body and mind, as the death-gaze of Yama fell upon him and struck deeper than his own being.

Kali, too, looked into his eyes; and as she did so, she raised her screaming scepter.

It was as the lifting of one shadow and the falling of another.

“Good-bye, Binder,” came the words within his mind.

Then the skull began its screaming.

He felt himself falling.

There was a throbbing.

It was within his head. It was all about him.

He was awakened by throbbing, and he felt himself covered with aches, as with bandages.

There were chains upon his wrists and his ankles.

He was half seated on the floor of a small compartment. Beside the doorway sat the One in Red, smoking.

Yama nodded, said nothing.

“Why am I alive?” Sam asked him.

“You live for purposes of keeping an appointment made many years ago in Mahartha,” said Yama. “Brahma is particularly anxious to see you once again.”

“But I am not especially anxious to see Brahma.”

“Over the years, that has become somewhat apparent.”

“I see you got out of the mud all right.”

The other smiled. “You are a nasty man,” he said.

“I know. I practice.”

“I gather your business deal fell through?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Perhaps you can try recouping your losses. We’re halfway to Heaven.”

“Think I’d have a chance?”

“You just might. Times change. Brahma could be a merciful god this week.”

“My occupational therapist told me to specialize in lost causes.”

Yama shrugged.

“What of the demon?” Sam asked. “The one who was with me?”

“I touched it,” said Yama, “hard. I don’t know whether I finished it or just drove it away. But you needn’t worry about it again. I doused you with demon repellant. If the creature still lives, it will be a long time before it recovers from our contact. Maybe never. How did it happen in the first place? I thought you were the one man immune to demonic possession.”

“So did I. What’s demon repellant?”

“I found a chemical agent, harmless to us, which none of the energy beings can stand.”

“Handy item. Could’ve used it in the days of the binding.”

“Yes. We wore it into Hellwell.”

“That was quite a battle, from what I saw of it.”

“Yes,” said Yama. “What is it like — demonic possession? What does it feel like to have another will overriding your own?”

“It is strange,” said Sam, “and frightening, and rather educating at the same time.”

“In what ways?”

“It was their world first,” said Sam. “We took it away from them. Why shouldn’t they be everything we hate them for being? To them, we are the demons.”

“But what does it feel like?”

“To have one’s will overridden by that of another? You should know.”

Yama’s smile vanished, then returned. “You would like me to strike you, wouldn’t you, Buddha? It would make you feel superior. Unfortunately, I’m a sadist and will not do it.”

Sam laughed.

“Touché, Death,” he said.

They sat in silence for a time.

“Can you spare me a cigarette?”

Yama passed him one, lit it.

“What’s First Base like these days?”

“You’ll hardly recognize the place,” said Yama. “If everyone in it were to die at this moment, it would still be perfect ten thousand years from now. The flowers would still bloom and the music would play and the fountains would ripple the length of the spectrum. Warm meals would still be laid within the garden pavilions. The City itself is immortal.”

“A fitting abode, I suppose, for those who call themselves gods.”

“Call themselves?” asked Yama. “You are wrong, Sam, Godhood is more than a name. It is a condition of being. One does not achieve it merely by being immortal, for even the lowliest laborer in the fields may achieve continuity of existence. Is it then the conditioning of an Aspect? No. Any competent hypnotist can play games with the self-image. Is it the raising up of an Attribute? Of course not. I can design machines more powerful and more accurate than any faculty a man may cultivate. Being a god is the quality of being able to be yourself to such an extent that your passions correspond with the forces of the universe, so that those who look upon you know this without hearing your name spoken. Some ancient poet said that the world is full of echoes and correspondences. Another wrote a long poem of an inferno, wherein each man suffered a torture which coincided in nature with those forces which had ruled his life. Being a god is being able to recognize within one’s self these things that are important, and then to strike the single note that brings them into alignment with everything else that exists. Then, beyond morals or logic or esthetics, one is wind or fire, the sea, the mountains, rain, the sun or the stars, the flight of an arrow, the end of a day, the clasp of love. One rules through one’s ruling passions. Those who look upon gods then say, without even knowing their names, ‘He is Fire. She is Dance. He is Destruction. She is Love.’ So, to reply to your statement, they do not call themselves gods. Everyone else does, though, everyone who beholds them.”

“So they play that on their fascist banjos, eh?”

“You choose the wrong adjective.”

“You’ve already used up all the others.”

“It appears that our minds will never meet on this subject.”

“If someone asks you why you’re oppressing a world and you reply with a lot of poetic crap, no. I guess there can’t be a meeting of minds.”

“Then let us choose another subject for conversation.”

“I do look upon you, though, and say, ‘He is Death.’”

Yama did not reply.

“Odd ruling passion. I’ve heard that you were old before you were young . . .”

“You know that is true.”

“You were a mechanical prodigy and a weapons master. You lost your boyhood in a burst of flame, and you became an old man that same day. Did death become your ruling passion in that moment? Or was it earlier? Or later?”

“It does not matter,” said Yama.

“Do you serve the gods because you believe what you have said to me — or because you hate the larger portion of humanity?”

“I did not lie to you.”

“Then Death is an idealist. Amusing.”

“Not so.”

“Or could it be. Lord Yama, that neither guess is correct? That your ruling passion—”

“You’ve mentioned her name before,” said Yama, “in the same speech wherein you likened her to a disease. You were wrong then and you are still wrong. I do not care to hear that sermon over again, and since I am not at the moment sinking in quicksand, I will not.”

“Peace,” said Sam. “But tell me, do the ruling passions of the gods ever change?”

Yama smiled. “The goddess of dance was once the god of war. So it would seem that anything can change.”

“When I have died the real death,” said Sam, “then will I be changed. But until that moment I will hate Heaven with every breath that I draw. If Brahma has me burnt, I will spit into the flames. If he has me strangled, I will attempt to bite the executioner’s hand. If my throat is cut, may my blood rust the blade that does it. Is that a ruling passion?”

“You are good god material,” said Yama.

“Good god!” said Sam.

“Before whatever may happen happens,” said Yama, “I have been assured that you will be permitted to attend the wedding.”

“Wedding? You and Kali? Soon?”

“At the full of the lesser moon,” Yama replied. “So, whatever Brahma decides, at least I can buy you a drink before it occurs.”

“For that I thank you, deathgod. But it has always been my understanding that weddings are not made in Heaven.”

“That tradition is about to be broken,” said Yama. “No tradition is sacred.”

“Then good luck,” said Sam.

Yama nodded, yawned, lit another cigarette.

“By the way,” said Sam, “what is the latest vogue in celestial executions? I ask purely for informational purposes.”

“Executions are not held in Heaven,” said Yama, opening a cabinet and removing a chessboard.