At the heart of a dense and sooty darkness, like the hollow within a glass mountain, there dwelled a being whose very flesh seemed blind and could be cleaved by a sword. She was as thick and restless as a mountain of soot, agitated by the winds of dissolution, her body dense as the belly of a muddy mountain adrift in the vast ocean of mire. Her touch was rough, as if composed of millions of embers, and yet, in the stillness of deep sleep, she possessed a peculiar beauty. She was the fortress of ignorance and slumber, bearing the glossy black hue of a bee’s back. It was in the dread of night, amidst the wild tribes of hunters, that a king, accompanied by his minister, set forth. At that moment, leaving behind a city whose people lay deep in sleep, the wise-hearted king—Vikrama—entered the perilous forest, his heroic spirit undaunted. Within those tangled woods, Karkati, the fearsome demoness, caught sight of the two men wandering steadfastly, their courage unshaken as they sought the realm of the vetalas. Observing them, Karkati’s thoughts turned dark and hungry: “Today I have found my feast. These two are ignorant of the Self, and their bodies are nothing but a burden to them.” She reasoned that the fool lives only for destruction and suffering, both here and hereafter; such beings, she mused, are best destroyed, for there is no wisdom in preserving what is harmful. For those blind to their own Self, death is the only true life, and their journey through death merely accumulates further evil. She recalled the ancient decree of the lotus-born one at the dawn of creation: the ignorant self is meant for violent consumption, not for those who know the Self. Thus, she resolved, “Today, these two must be eaten by me, for they have become my food. Only the unfortunate neglect a flawless opportunity such as this.” Yet, a flicker of discernment shone in her mind. “Let these two never become virtuous or noble,” she thought, “for the destruction of such men does not suit my nature.” Therefore, she decided to examine them: “If they are endowed with virtue, I will not eat them; the virtuous should never be harmed. Those who desire uncontrived happiness, fame, and long life should honor the virtuous, giving them all they desire. Even if I perish with my body, I will not consume what is virtuous, for truly, the virtuous bring delight to the heart even more than life itself.” She resolved that one must protect the virtuous, even at the cost of one’s own life, for their company transforms even death into a friend. “If I, a demoness, protect one endowed with virtue, others too will act kindly toward him, just as pure reflection arises in a clear heart. Those who possess noble virtues and dwell among embodied beings are like moons upon the earth, greatly cooling all whom they touch. Death is the rejection of virtue; life is the shelter of the virtuous. Whether the fruit be heaven, liberation, or otherwise, it comes from seeking refuge in the virtuous during life.” Thus, she decided she would test these two with playful questioning: “Are these two possessed of honor, knowledge, and poetry, O lotus-eyed ones?” For it is right first to consider virtue and fault, and if fault outweighs virtue, then and only then should punishment be meted out, as light or severe as is fitting. Having resolved thus, the demoness—flower of her clan’s forest—let out a deep roar, resounding like a streak of thundercloud in the darkness. As the echo faded, she uttered harsh, shrill words—like the crack of lightning that follows thunder. “Hey! Hey! Moon and sun, rulers of the wild forest sky-path; worms dwelling in the dark hollows of the great illusion’s seat! Who are you two—of great wisdom or poor judgment—who have come together, entering the path of my prey, experts in death for a moment? Hey! Hey! Spirit, what are you? Where does your little body stand? Show your face, let your voice be heard—who fears the buzzing of a bee?” She taunted them further, “Like lions, those seeking their aim rush forward with all their strength; you, with equal form and sound, try to frighten me—why? Nothing succeeds for those who delay, except self-destruction.” When she heard the word “king” spoken, she found it pleasing, and, restless as she was, she roared and laughed. In the flood of radiance from her laughter, the two men saw her form, filling the quarters with sound. She appeared like a fragment of a cloud from ages past, as if she had scraped the edge of a mountain. Her garment blazed with the flashes of lightning that danced in the circles of her own eyes. Her neck was thick and dark as a mass of thunderclouds, her body swirling like flames rising from an ocean of darkness. Her face, fierce in battle, echoed with the cries of slain night-dwellers, and before her, the sky seemed enlivened with pillars of black collyrium. Her hair bristled upright, her limbs veined, her eyes tawny, her very form composed of living darkness—she inspired terror even among yakṣas, rākṣasas, and piśācas. Her mouth gaped wide as a mountain cave, terrifying with the roar of wind; her forehead bore a pestle and mortar, and she wore a plough and winnowing basket as her crown. She shimmered like a peak of beryl at the end of an age, her laughter shaking the lords of the universe, as if the very Night of Time had arisen. She seemed as if the dense, cloud-filled forest of the sky had taken on flesh and arrived—a night so massive and corporeal. Her body appeared to have risen from a seat of mud, as though darkness itself had taken shelter and assumed form to wage war against the moon and sun. Her two breasts hung heavy, dark as sapphire mountain slopes, like a pair of rainclouds adorned with pestle and plough. Her great naked body glowed with the touch of embers, her limbs swaying like tree branches stirred by the wind. Yet, beholding her dreadful form, the two mighty heroes stood firm and unmoved. For nothing can disturb the mind of one who is truly detached.