By the power of his illusion, Maya unleashed a storm upon his enemies: waters surged, winds howled, and even the mighty limbs of Sharabha fell upon the opposing hosts. Overwhelmed and bewildered by this illusion—known as Taraka—the leaders of the enemy armies became utterly helpless, unable even to think or act, like senses restrained by a sage from their objects. Assaulted by torrents of water, flames, elephants, serpents, lions, tigers, bears, rakshasas, and demons, and enveloped in impenetrable darkness, the enemy hosts floundered as if seeking solid ground in the midst of a vast, unfathomable ocean. As the leaders of these armies were being crushed and both gods and demons roared in the tumult, the foremost among the gods, armed with their celestial weapons, entered the fray to protect their own forces. Yama, wielding his fearsome mace; Varuna, lord of the waters; Bhaskara, the radiant Sun; Kumara, accompanied by countless immortals; and Indra himself, king of the gods, astride his white elephant and brandishing the thunderbolt—all these divine warriors plunged into the enemy’s ranks. The lord of the Maruts entered with his son, the Sun with his retinue, and the brilliant three-eyed Lord Shiva himself—all intoxicated with might, they stormed the well-defended enemy lines. Like lordly elephants charging into a dense forest, like the sun piercing a sky thick with clouds, or like lions attacking a defenseless herd of cows, so did the gods hurl themselves upon the demon army. The attendants of the gods shattered the enemy ranks, whose demons, wounded and distressed by mighty blows, fell like darkness scattered by the radiant sun, or like dense gloom consumed by fire. Just as the moon calms the accumulated darkness of night, so did he pacify the chaos; and as the power of darkness waned, the brilliance of the weapons only increased. Then, for a moment, a mighty lion’s roar echoed from the guardians of the directions and the leaders of the hosts. In the heat of battle, monstrous, deformed, and limbless beings were shattered—heads severed, bodies pierced with arrows. The non-divine beings, struck down by the best of the gods, sank into the mire like great elephants mired in mud. Vajrapani wielded his thunderbolt, and the mighty Mayuraketu attacked with his spear. Dharmaraja fought with his fierce staff, Varuna with his noose, the Yaksha king with his trident, and Sukeśa with his dazzling strength—all engaged in the great battle. The leaders of the hosts, resplendent as gods, their crests gleaming as if bathed in sacred offerings, destroyed the armies of Danu’s sons, their blows falling like Indra’s thunderbolts. But Maya, with cunning, pierced Kumara—the son of Uma and protector of the gods—with an arrow, and then addressed Taraka’s son, the demon Taraka. Having struck his blow, Maya declared his intent: “I will enter the city, mighty with the strength of the demon king. Once I have regained my rest and vigor, I shall return to battle those who challenge us. Though our bodies are wounded and pierced by weapons, our banners and armor shattered, we burn with the desire for victory, as do the leaders of the hosts and the lords of the worlds.” Hearing Maya’s words resound in the sky, Taraka—his eyes bloodshot with longing for battle—swiftly entered Tripura, accompanied by the sons of Diti and Aditi, exulting in the prospect of combat. Then Maya, master of illusion and foremost among the Danavas, having struck his blow, swiftly entered Tripura, dark as a rain-laden cloud in the sky. He exhaled a long, hot breath, gazing at the assembled Daityas, and pondered deeply, as if he were the very embodiment of Time at the world’s end. He reflected, “Even Indra, eager for battle, stands afraid before me; yet the illustrious Vidyunmālī has met his end. There is no fortress equal to Tripura, yet even this stronghold has come to ruin—no fortress can truly guarantee safety. All things, even the strongest, are subject to Time; when Time is enraged, who can offer protection? Whatever power exists in the three worlds, among all beings, is under the sway of Time—so declares the ordinance of the Grandsire. Who could possibly master this boundless, unrestrainable force? Who could cross over, except the great god Maheśvara?” Maya’s thoughts continued: “I do not fear Indra, nor Yama, nor Varuna, nor Kubera; but the lord of these gods, Maheśvara, is unconquerable. Today, I shall display the fruit of sovereignty and supreme power before these heroes. I will create a pond filled with the water of immortality and rare herbs; then the Daityas will rise again, revived by these life-restoring waters.” With this resolve, Maya, supreme among magicians, created by his magic a wondrous pond, just as the Grandsire once did with the mango tree. The pond spanned two yojanas in length and one in width, adorned with steps and landings, marvelous in form—a sight fit for legend. Its waters were supreme, fragrant with nectar, shining like moonbeams, and endowed with every virtue, as if it were a noble woman herself. Blue lotuses, white water-lilies, and red lotuses blossomed around its edges, interwoven with clusters of kadamba flowers, all encircled by fearsome barriers glowing with the hues of the moon and sun. Birds of sweet song filled the air, their feathers radiant as gold, and the pond was crowded with wish-fulfilling beings, a veritable fire of life for the living. Having created this miraculous pond, Maya—just as Maheśvara had once washed the Ganga—washed Vidyunmālī in its waters. Immersed, the mighty Daitya and enemy of the gods rose up at once, blazing like a fire newly kindled. Having saluted Maya respectfully, Taraka by name addressed him, saying, “I am Vidyunmālī,” and arose, eager for battle. He cried, “Where is Nandī, surrounded by Rudra and the Pramatha jackals? Let us fight and crush our enemies—what need have we for mercy in our bodies? If we do not stand against Rudra, O mighty ones, we shall be slain in battle and become food for Yama.” Hearing these powerful words, Vidyunmālī, his eyes moist with emotion, embraced him, and the great Asura spoke: “O Vidyunmālī, I desire neither kingdom nor even life itself; what use is anything to me without you, mighty Asura? This great, immortal pool, O lord of Maya, has been created by your magic; it restores life to the slain Danavas and Daityas.” Thus, through Maya’s power, hope and life returned to the demon hosts, even as the tide of battle raged on.