With a gentle smile and a bowed head, Śiva spoke playfully to Sati, seeking to dispel her anger. He offered her a reverent salutation, hoping his words would ease her heart. He reminded her that even affection, disrespect, or reproach can disturb the mind, and that it is said one should never be angry when touched by jest. Despite Śiva’s many gentle words, Sati was deeply wounded and clung fiercely to her anger. In haste, her garment seized by Śaṅkara’s hand and her hair disheveled, the daughter of the mountain sought to depart, unable to let go of her hurt. As she was leaving in anger, the destroyer of cities spoke again, “Truly, O daughter, in every way you are like your father.” He compared her heart to the sky obscured by the peaks of Himālaya, thick with clusters of clouds—difficult to fathom. He said she had gained hardness from the forests, crookedness from the winding paths, difficulty in approach from the snow, and coldness from the king of mountains himself. Thus addressed, Sati’s head trembled with anger and her teeth tightly clenched as she replied to Śiva. She protested, “Do not reproach all the virtuous by attributing every fault to them. All your defects have arisen from your own wicked associations. From serpents you have gained many tongues, from ashes your bonds of affection, from the moon impurity of heart, and from the bull, incomprehensibility. Why say more? Enough of your tiresome words. You dwell in cremation grounds without fear, you are naked and feel no shame, you bear a skull and have long been devoid of compassion.” Having spoken thus, the daughter of Himālaya left the temple. As she departed, the hosts of the lord of gods cried out in lamentation, “Mother, where are you going, leaving us?” Weeping, they ran after her. Vīraka, planting himself at her feet, his voice choked with tears, pleaded, “Mother, what is this? Where are you going, filled with anger? I will follow you, though you are without affection; otherwise, I will cast myself from the peak, abandoned by you and devoted to austerities.” Lifting her face with her right hand, the goddess soothed Vīraka, “Do not grieve, my child. It is not proper for you, my son, to fall from the mountain peak or to come with me. Listen to the reason: Because I was called ‘Kṛṣṇā’ by Hari, I have been both reproached and not reproached. Therefore, I shall undertake such austerity as will grant me the state of Gaurī. This god is infatuated with women; after I depart, you must always guard the entrance, ever watchful for any breach. If you see another woman enter here to approach Hara, you must inform me.” Vīraka replied, “So be it,” and, flooded with the nectar of his mother’s joyful command, his fever gone, he went to the grove to see her, bowing to his mother. There, he saw the goddess Kusumamodinī, adorned and named as the deity of the mountain, approaching as his mother’s companion. Seeing the mountain’s daughter, Kusumamodinī’s heart overflowed with affection; she embraced Sati and loudly asked, “Where are you going, daughter?” Sati told her everything—the reason for her anger at Śaṃkara. Girijā then spoke to Kusumamodinī, her mother’s approval evident. “O blameless one,” she said, “you are always the goddess of the mountain king, and exceedingly dear to me in every way. Therefore, I will tell you what must be done with care: you must diligently guard against the entry of any other woman. If, while I am engaged in secret austerity on the mountain, someone enters the abode of Pinākin, you must inform me at once, O sinless one. Then I will arrange whatever needs to be done next.” Kusumamodinī replied, “So be it,” and went to her own auspicious mountain. Umā, the mountain’s daughter, swiftly entered her father’s garden, her radiance like a garland of clouds filling the sky. There, adorned only with garments of tree-bark, she endured the heat of summer with five fires, dwelt in water during the rains, and in the cold season’s nights lay upon dry ground. Thus she remained steadfast in her austerities. Meanwhile, a powerful demon, son of Andhaka, remembering his father’s death, learned of the mountain’s daughter. Having conquered all the gods in battle, the fierce warrior, brother of Baka and named Āḍi, ever watched for the crescent-crested one. The enemy of the gods came to the city of the destroyer of Tripura; arriving, he saw a hero stationed at the gate. He recalled the boon once granted by the lotus-born Brahmā when Andhaka was slain by the god of the mountain, foe of the immortals. Āḍi undertook severe and intense austerities. Pleased by his penance, Brahmā appeared and asked, “What do you wish to obtain, O best of Daityas, by this penance?” Āḍi replied, “I choose deathlessness as my boon.” Brahmā answered, “No man or Daitya exists without death; death must be attained by all embodied beings.” Thus addressed, Āḍi, the lion among Daityas, spoke, “O you born from the lotus, let death come to me only when my form changes.