As the story unfolds, a demoness contemplates the two visitors before her. She muses that today, these two must become her meal, for they have fallen into her grasp and now stand as her food; only the truly unfortunate would neglect such a flawless opportunity when it presents itself. Yet, she reflects further, wishing that these two would never become virtuous or noble, for the destruction of good men does not align with her nature. Resolving to examine them, she decides: if they are endowed with virtue, she will not eat them—for the virtuous should never be harmed. She understands that those who seek genuine happiness, lasting fame, and long life must honor the virtuous and grant them all they desire. Even if she herself should perish along with her body, she would not enjoy consuming what is virtuous, for the virtuous bring joy to the heart, greater even than life itself. She concludes that one should protect a virtuous person, even at the cost of one’s own life, for association with the virtuous can transform even death into a friend. She muses that if she, a demoness, would protect one endowed with virtue, others too would act kindly toward him, just as pure reflection arises in the heart. Those with noble virtues who dwell among embodied beings are like moons upon the earth, cooling and soothing all through their presence. She realizes that death is the rejection of virtue, while life is the shelter of the virtuous; and all fruits—be they heaven, liberation, or otherwise—arise from taking refuge in the virtuous during life. Therefore, she sometimes tests these two with playful questioning: Are they possessed of honor, knowledge, and poetry, O lotus-eyed ones? She knows that first, one must consider the presence or absence of virtue and the degree of fault; then, if fault outweighs virtue, one should impose punishment, whether light or severe, or in the form of a fine, as appropriate. Then, the demoness, the flower of her clan’s forest, roared deeply, her voice echoing like a streak of cloud in the darkness. At the end of her roar, she uttered harsh, shrill words—like thunder’s crack, sharp as lightning. “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—possessors of great wisdom or poor judgment—who have come together, entering the path of my prey, experts in death for a moment?” She continued, “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?” Like lions, those seeking their aim rush forward with all their strength; with equal form and sound, you try to frighten me—why? Nothing succeeds for those who delay, except self-destruction. When the word ‘king’ was spoken, she found it pleasant to hear, and, restless, she roared and laughed. The two saw her, her laughter flooding the quarters with sound, her form revealed by its radiance. She appeared like a fragment of cloud from an age, as if she had scraped the mountain’s edge; her garment blazed with flashes from the circles of lightning in her own eyes. Her neck was thick and dark as a mass of thunderclouds, resembling the swirling flames of fire rising from an ocean of darkness. Her face, fierce in battle, echoed with the cries of slain night-dwellers, and the sky before her seemed enlivened as if with pillars of black collyrium. Her hair stood upright, her limbs veined, her eyes tawny, her form composed of darkness—she inspired great fear even among yakṣas, rākṣasas, and piśācas. Her mouth gaped like 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, appearing as if the Night of Time had arisen. It seemed as if the dense, cloud-filled forest of the sky had taken on a body and arrived—a night so massive and fleshy, endowed with form. With her bodily form, she seemed to have risen from a seat of mud; as if darkness itself had assumed a body to wage war against the moon and sun. Her two breasts, dark as sapphire mountain slopes and resembling a pair of hanging rainclouds, were adorned with pestle and plough. Her great body, naked, was touched by the glow of embers; her limbs swayed like tree branches stirred by the wind. Seeing her, the two mighty heroes remained unmoved; nothing can cause delusion in one whose mind is detached. They addressed her: “O great rakshasi, is this anger of yours merely laughter? Women are either light-hearted or, even in their lightness, excessively agitated. Abandon anger; this agitation does not suit you. Wise people act in the world only to accomplish their own purpose. Thousands like you, O powerless one, are as insignificant to us as flies; our strong tendencies sweep them away like grass and leaves. Casting off the fever of anger, with a calm mind and practical reasoning, the wise person accomplishes his aim. Let the task be accomplished by your own action, O Mathava; for under the rule of great destiny, when is there room for confusion? Speak what you desire; what do you seek, O petitioner? Even in dreams, we never pursue what is unattainable.” Thus addressed, the demoness thought, “Ah! Truly, how pure is the conduct and character of these lion-like men. I do not consider these two to be ordinary; this wonder is truly remarkable. Their words, voices, and glances alone reveal their inner resolve. Through the gateways of words, speech, and glances, the intentions of the wise become united, just as the waters of rivers merge through their channels. By these two, my own disposition has been mostly discerned; and by me, theirs. These two are not to be destroyed by me, nor am I by them, for we are all inherently indestructible.