Whoever among the people was childless found themselves blessed with children, all through the power of my mantra. When these words were heard, they stirred great curiosity among those present. The king, devoted to his people’s welfare, went further: he dispelled even the most formidable diseases by generously giving gold, jewels, fine garments, and also gifts of grain, villages, towns, and more. In this way, he dwelled there for fourteen years, ever attentive to the needs of his subjects. Ah, what a supremely difficult task for a king—to care so deeply and tirelessly for his people! Truly, his devotion to their welfare was extraordinary. As the king pondered these things, Lord Śiva himself appeared before him, assuming the form of a humble mendicant, accompanied by his attendants. At that time, there was a woman of incomparable beauty in the world, yet she was childless and longed deeply for a son. The nāga women, knowing that the king had the power to fulfill all desires, approached with curiosity. Within the dwelling of the mendicant, the queen herself—attentive and undistracted—spoke to the ascetic, who was absorbed in thought and engaged in receiving alms. With joined palms, free from anxiety and intent on her purpose, the queen, though barren and yearning for a son, wished to see the mendicant in secret. “You are truly a source of compassion,” she said, “always granting people the fulfillment of their deepest wishes. You say you enter the king’s house unknown and unseen. Therefore, considering this, quickly go to your own inner chambers, O auspicious one.” But when she heard the words of the mendicant, her mind became agitated. Hearing her companion’s words, the distressed queen said, “Quickly bring the mendicant before he departs elsewhere.” Then Sunandā, who spoke wisely, advised her accordingly: “Therefore, reveal your troubled state of mind to the king.” At that very moment, as the queen longed for an audience, the king—his heart softened with affection—approached her and asked, “What is this, O queen? Why do you appear so, and why do you speak as if your mind is disturbed?” Hearing the king’s gentle inquiry, the queen opened her heart: “For those who are without sons, even play brings only suffering; for one without a child, there is no refuge, especially when deprived of both son and grandson. Happy indeed are those in the world who have a child, even if he is merely adorned with dust from play. Because of this reason, I have reached the greatest depth of despondency. Here, a mendicant has arrived, appearing as an eternal god. Women, children, and people all seek refuge with him; I have no doubt that we too should do the same.” Hearing her words, the king went at once to the old garden. As soon as he saw the mendicant, he himself assumed the garb of a mendicant and worshipped that sacred emblem, the image of the ascetic. He said, “I am without a son; blessed is my queen.” Thus addressed by Rājasiṃha, the mendicant—who was none other than Śiva in the form of a liṅga—then acted. From that time onward, the king, wise and together with all his wives, was blessed. By the greatness of the god of gods, a son of great strength was born to them. Then I, O goddess, came from Mount Mandara out of curiosity. By my yogic power, I created a city for myself—an eternal abode of Śiva, which I established at that time, O beautiful one, to the north of the god Māṛkaṇḍeyāśvara. Those who always worship the supreme lord Śiveśvara, who recognize the revered teacher of the world and behold Śiveśvara, who consider liberation as extremely difficult to attain and worldly existence as very terrifying—whatever their condition, any mortal who seeks refuge in that Lord Śiva, or who, with devotion and purity, narrates or causes this story to be heard, shall be blessed.