Once, a noble Brahmin, foremost among his peers, encountered a mysterious woman who could assume any form at will—a rakshasi, cunning and intent on gaining his trust. She approached him with many oaths, speaking sweetly to the prince among sages, whose mind was clouded with confusion. When he asked, “Who are you?” she replied, “I am known everywhere as Kankalini.” The Brahmin, trusting her words, assured her, “Whatever you have declared, I will do exactly that—there is no doubt. Whatever you say that pleases you, I will say and do.” Hearing this, the rakshasi, though old, was still strikingly beautiful, her body adorned with divine ornaments. She took the Brahmin everywhere with her, introducing him to all as her own son, saying, “This is my son, a repository of virtues.” She spoke and acted accordingly wherever they went. People who saw the Brahmin—endowed with beauty, youth, knowledge, and good fortune—and the old woman, herself possessed of virtues, believed she was truly his mother. In that place, an excellent Brahmin, who had a daughter adorned with fine ornaments, gave her in marriage to this Brahmin, presenting the rakshasi as the foremost among them. The maiden, having gained such a husband, felt she had achieved her heart’s desire. Yet the Brahmin, seeing his wife endowed with virtues, was deeply troubled in his heart. He thought, “This rakshasi, evil in form, will surely devour me. What shall I do? Where shall I go? To whom shall I tell this? Who here will save me from this great danger? My wife is auspicious, virtuous, beautiful, and youthful, yet even her, by some evil fate, the rakshasi will devour.” Meanwhile, the rakshasi, though aged, was exceedingly formidable and had gone elsewhere at that time. The young wife, humble, devoted, and respectful, noticed her husband’s distress. Quietly, in private, she approached him and asked, “Why have you fallen into sorrow, my lord? Tell me the truth.” The Brahmin slowly recounted everything as it had happened: “What is there that should not be told to a dear friend or a noble-born woman?” Hearing his words, his wife—wise and eloquent—replied, “For one who lacks self-mastery, there is fear everywhere—even at home. But how could there be fear for those who possess self-mastery? What then, on the bank of the Gautami? Here dwell those devoted to Vishnu, detached, and discerning. Bathe here, become pure, and praise the flawless Lord.” Heeding her counsel, the Brahmin, purified of sin by bathing in the sacred Ganges, praised Narayana on the bank of the Gautami. He prayed, “You are the inner soul, the lord of this world; you alone are its creator, Mukunda, its destroyer, and its protector. You care for the helpless, O Narasimha, why do you not protect?” Hearing his earnest prayer, Narayana, the remover of the world’s sorrow, destroyed the sinful rakshasi. With the brilliant Sudarshana discus, radiant with a thousand spokes, the Lord granted the Brahmin his desired boons and brought him to his guru. From that time, that sacred place became known as Narayana’s tirtha, along with the Brahmin; it became renowned as a place where bathing, giving, worship, and other rites fulfill one’s wishes. Among the holy sites, Bhanu Tirtha is renowned, as are the Tvastra, Maheshvara, Indra, Yama, and Agneya tirthas, all powerful to destroy every sin. In that land, there was a king named Priyadarshana, also called Abhishtuta, who began a virtuous horse sacrifice to worship the gods. Sixteen officiating priests, led by Vasishta and Atri, were present. A question arose: when a Kshatriya is the sacrificer, how should the sacrificial ground be arranged? When a Brahmin is initiated, the king gives the sacrificial land; but when the king himself is initiated, who is the giver and who is the receiver? The Brahmins debated this among themselves, pondering the act of asking—which, though the source of all happiness, is also sinful, and should not be done, especially by a Kshatriya. Then the wise Vasishta, best knower of dharma, spoke: “When the king is being initiated, the Sun should be asked for the land: ‘Give me, O god Savitar, a place for worship suitable for the gods.’ O Brahmin, you are both divine and royal, lord of beings, salutations to you. Savitar is asked by the king for the auspicious worship of the gods. Then the king gives, and prays to the lord, the Sun.” Abhishtuta, full of faith, prayed to the god of gods, the Sun, who is the essence of Hari and Shiva: “Give the worship of the gods, O Savitar; salutations to you.” Since the Sun is both royal and divine, and the land was given by the king, Savitar, lord of the gods, replied, “I give.” Whoever performs sacrifice in this way suffers no harm; so it is with the horse sacrifice, when Brahmins skilled in the Vedas officiate. When, at the king’s command, the Sun came to the lord of the earth to grant the gods a sacrifice, that place became known as Bhānutīrtha. At that supreme sacrifice of the gods—the horse-sacrifice—immortals attended, but so too did the Daityas, Dānavas, and other destroyers of sacrifice. Disguised as Brahmins and singing like the chanters of the Sāma Veda, these great-minded ones entered the ritual unhindered. They seized the ladles, vessels, the Soma, the Soma-press, the sacred drink, the offerings, and even the officiating priests and the king himself. Some of the Asuras mocked, others threw things down, and others laughed; their actions were unknown to all except Viśvarūpa. Viśvarūpa, perceiving the truth, said to his father, “These are Daityas.” Hearing his son’s words, Tvaṣṭṛ spoke to the gods, preparing them for what was to come.