As the great battle unfolded, radiant beings mounted on tigers, their bodies shimmering with the deep blue of lotuses, set forth onto the field. Among them were fierce ones, wrathful and red, bearing a thousand eyes; they rode atop elephants with spotted hides, their presence both awe-inspiring and fearsome. Others gathered on swift horses, their forms flashing like lightning across the sky. Outside the asura hermitage, an immense host had assembled—forty-six million strong—arrayed between the circle of Yoginīs and the formidable demon army. The clash was terrible: arrows released by the Yoginīs shattered the crowns of the demons, and rivers of blood began to flow, their banks lined with kaishika grass like reeds. Ghouls, ghastly in aspect, mounted the beaks of vultures as if they were palaces, and drank from the skulls of fallen demon warriors, filling them with the blood-liquor of evil asuras. Vultures, in flocks, descended upon the battlefield, seizing entrails and mistaking them for ropes, while the air was thick with the fragrance of Mandāra blossoms, released by the powers of Siddhas and Vidyādharas who watched from above. The Yoginīs, with supernatural power, purified the enemy horses, their own bodies clinging to the steeds as they moved. Some among the Yoginīs struck with heavy staffs, others wielded sharp spears and pointed weapons, and many destroyed the demon chiefs with their swords. Brāhmī herself entered the fray, arranging the ranks for battle and slaying her foes. Māheśvarī, after a long and arduous struggle, struck out with her trident. Kaumārī, wielding her spear, split open the head of a demon. Vārāhī, with great speed, crushed the skull of Bāṣkala with her mighty mace. It was from the insults of these demons that Vārāhī’s renowned name arose. Then came Pracaṇḍa and Cāmara, two mighty warriors with great crowns and fearsome jaws. They marched behind Mahishāsura, who advanced in burning anger, eager for battle. The charioteers, armed with bows, pressed forward, blood streaming from their heads, while the four directions echoed with terrifying lion-roars. The powerful Yoginīs and their allies fought fiercely, but even they found it difficult to endure the onslaught. The invincibility of Mahishāsura, born of illusion, was spoken of with awe. In the form of yoga-sleep, the goddess appeared in the lotus eyes of Viṣṇu, so subtle that even Madhuka and Kaitabha could not grasp her hand. O Mother, if you, Kauśikī, had not been born, death would not have come to Śumbha and Niśumbha. O Dweller on the Vindhya, what austerity of yours has ever been fruitless? Even the bed of a monkey was enjoyed and later presented as a gift to the Lord of Wealth. You are the creative power of Brahma, the sustaining force of Viṣṇu, the enemy of Madhu. You are known as Ekānanshā, born as the joy of Yaśodā. You are knowledge, you are the great illusion, you are Lakshmi, you are Sarasvati herself. Then, pleased, the goddess went forth to battle Mahishāsura. She wielded a fierce circle and a club, and carried a fly-whisk. Her face was terrible to behold, her eyes blazing with fury, and she bore both an axe and a spear. In front of Mahisha, she struck down his allies and fought with righteous anger. Filled with intense wrath, Mahishāsura attacked Durga, loosing a volley of arrows. Enraged, Durga seized the lord of the Asuras, but the demon, undaunted, struck her in the face with three sharp arrows. The battle between goddess and demon raged on, the outcome poised on the edge of destiny.