At the sacred ford of the Seven-Godāvarī, all were instructed to bathe regularly, for it was a place of great holiness. Having received this counsel, the assembled gods joyfully agreed and, one by one, departed to their celestial abodes. The kings, too, took their queens and returned to their own cities. Then, turning to the lotus-eyed, best of women, a plea was made: “Accept me.” Gently, the doe-eyed lady, praised in turn by the king, responded with her own words. Seeking to shield herself from the king’s curse, yet her mind clouded by desire, she acted without wisdom and brought about her own ruin. The king then left the hermitage and returned to his city, while she, leaving the hermitage as well, stood outside, sorrowful—like Rohiṇī, the beloved of the Moon, suffering under the shadow of a great eclipse. At that moment, Śukra, the sage, rose from the netherworld and returned to his hermitage in the sky, appearing like a streak of twilight-tinted cloud. It was pondered: who, indeed, would dare play with anger as one would with a venomous serpent? To destroy one who is pure in conduct is truly an evil deed. Weeping and filled with shame, she spoke softly and slowly: “Helpless, I am led away by force, weeping, to be claimed.” Śukra, purifying himself with water and thus cleansed, spoke his words. Yet, disregarding all respect, she was made a queen who had fallen from righteousness. Then came a grave prophecy: “After seven nights, there will only be ashes from a rain of stones. Remain here, daughter, and practice austerity for the sake of liberation from sin, O blessed one.” With that, Śukra, accompanied by his disciples, descended once more to the netherworld, the realm of demons. As foretold, after seven nights, a great shower of stones fell. The abode of the rakshasas, created by the god Shambhu, was struck. The ordinary beings were reduced to ashes, and a great defeat befell them. It was said: even an ordinary woman can burn—how much more so the daughter of the mountain? He who wrought this was of immeasurable strength, difficult even to look upon, let alone to face in battle. The mighty Andhaka demon then spoke to Prahlada, his words heavy with meaning. Alone, devoid of righteousness, his body reddened with ashes, he was questioned: “How can one with eyes like a bull’s leaf fear the gaze of a woman’s face?” A reply came: “What you say is not correct; it is contrary to dharma and true meaning. The difference between you and Hara is as great as that between an elephant and a mosquito, or between gold and stone.” “Listen now,” it was said, “to the words of the great-souled devarṣi Asita: He who delights in his own wife and avoids others’ wives has nothing to fear in this world. But one who covets another’s wife, even if he is of noble birth, will find no happiness here or hereafter.” The examples of the righteous were recalled: Manu, son of the Sun, devoted to dharma; Agastya, content in mind with his own wife. All these became radiant, patient with curses and boons, and worthy of worship by gods and siddhas. Yet those who strayed from righteousness met ruin: Namuci, the wicked one who harmed others; King Nahusha, who coveted another’s strength; Yadu and Utkamaujā, who consorted with women of other castes—all were destroyed in ancient times by unrighteousness. For men devoid of dharma, the fate is grim: they go to the great hell called Raurava.