“Enough of your endless words,” the goddess declared, her patience worn thin. “You, who dwell without fear in cremation grounds, who go naked without shame, who bear a skull and have long since cast aside compassion—what more is there to say?” With these words, the daughter of Himālaya turned away and departed from the temple. As she left, the hosts who served the lord of the gods cried out in grief, “Mother, where are you going, leaving us behind?” Their voices were filled with sorrow as they wept and hurried after her. Among them, Vīraka rushed forward, throwing himself at her feet. His voice trembled with tears as he pleaded, “Mother, what is this? Where are you going, filled with such anger? If you leave, I will follow you, though you seem without affection for us. Otherwise, abandoned by you and devoted to austerities, I will cast myself from the mountain’s peak.” The goddess gently lifted Vīraka’s face with her right hand and spoke with kindness, “Do not grieve, my son. It is not fitting for you either to fall from the mountain or to follow me. Listen, and I will tell you the reason. Because Hari called me ‘Kṛṣṇā,’ I have been both reproached and not reproached. Therefore, I shall undertake austerities so that I may become Gaurī. This god is easily enchanted by women; after I leave, you must always guard the entrance with vigilance. If you see any woman attempting to approach Hara, inform me at once, my child, and I will act accordingly.” Vīraka, comforted by his mother’s words, bowed to her and promised, “So be it.” The nectar of her joyful command dispelled his distress, and he went to the grove, bowing once more before her. There, Vīraka saw Kusumamodinī, the mountain’s own goddess, approaching as his mother’s companion, adorned in beauty. When Kusumamodinī saw the daughter of the mountain, her heart overflowed with affection. She embraced her and exclaimed, “Where are you going, daughter?” The goddess confided in her friend, revealing the reason for her anger with Śaṃkara. Girijā, the mountain’s daughter, then addressed Kusumamodinī, who was beloved and ever dear to her: “O blameless one, you are always the goddess of the mountain king and most precious to me. Therefore, I entrust you with an important task: guard diligently against the entry of any other woman. If, while I am engaged in secret austerities on the mountain, anyone enters the abode of Pinākin, inform me immediately, O sinless one, and I will arrange whatever is necessary.” Kusumamodinī agreed, saying, “So be it,” and returned to her own auspicious mountain. Meanwhile, Umā, the daughter of the mountain, entered her father’s garden with swift steps. Her radiance filled the sky like a garland of clouds. There, clothed only in garments of tree-bark, she began her severe austerities: enduring the blazing heat of summer amidst five fires, dwelling in water during the rains, and lying on dry ground through the cold nights. Thus, she remained steadfast in her penance. At that time, a powerful demon, the son of Andhaka, remembered his father’s death and learned of the mountain’s daughter. This fierce warrior, Āḍi, brother of Baka, had conquered all the gods in battle and ever watched for the crescent-crested one, Śiva. The enemy of the gods came to the city of the destroyer of Tripura and saw a hero stationed at the gate. He recalled the boon once granted by the lotus-born Brahmā when his father Andhaka had been slain by the god of the mountain. Determined, Āḍi undertook fierce and intense austerities. Brahmā, pleased by his penance, appeared and asked, “What do you wish to obtain, O best of Daityas?” The demon replied, “I desire deathlessness as my boon.” Brahmā answered, “No man or Daitya escapes death; all embodied beings must die.” Then Āḍi said, “O lotus-born, let death come to me only when my form changes.” Brahmā consented, “So be it. When your form undergoes a second transformation, then death will come to you; otherwise, you shall not die.” Believing himself immortal, the mighty Daitya remembered the means for his destruction. To avoid the vigilant hero at the gate, he transformed into a serpent and slipped through a crevice, unseen. Thus, evading Gaṇeśa, the formidable Dānava entered the abode of Śiva, the destroyer of cities. Inside, abandoning his serpent form, the great Asura assumed the likeness of Umā herself, his mind set on deception. With his magic, he created a form beyond imagination—enchanting, flawless, and concealing all marks of his true identity. Within the mouth, however, he fashioned teeth like adamant, sharp and unyielding, preparing to slay the mountain lord. Thus disguised as Umā, beautiful and adorned with wondrous ornaments and garments, the wicked Daitya approached Hara. The mountain lord, seeing this form and believing it to be the daughter of Himālaya, was pleased and embraced the great Asura, convinced he beheld his beloved with all her familiar features.