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     Roger Zelazny "Lord of Light"
     Original scan by none. Proofing, layout by Nadie. (v3.0)



        I
     <i>It is said that fifty-three years after his liberation he returned from
the Golden Cloud,  to  take up once  again the gauntlet of Heaven, to oppose
the Order of Life and  the gods who ordained it so. His followers had prayed
for his return, though their prayers were sin. Prayer should not trouble one
who  has gone on to Nirvana,  no matter what the circumstances of his going.
The wearers  of the saffron robe prayed,  however,  that  He  of  the Sword,
Manjusri, should  come  again among them,  The  Boddhisatva is  said to have
heard. . .</i>
     <i>He whose desires have been throttled,</i>
     <i>who is independent of root,</i>
     <i>whose pasture is emptiness --</i>
     <i>signless and free --</i>
     <i>his path is as unknowable</i>
     <i>as that of birds across the heavens.</i>

     <i><i>Dhammapada (93)</i></i>

     His followers called  him  Mahasamatman  and said  he  was  a  god.  He
preferred to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam.
He  never claimed to be a god. But  then, he never claimed  not to be a god.
Circumstances  being what  they  were,  neither admission  could  be  of any
benefit. Silence, though, could.
     Therefore, there was mystery about him.
     It was in the season of the rains . . .
     It was well into the time of the great wetness. . .
     It  was in the days of the  rains that their prayers went  up, not from
the fingering of knotted  prayer cords or the spinning of prayer wheels, but
from the great pray-machine in the monastery of Ratri, goddess of the Night
     The high-frequency prayers were  directed upward through the atmosphere
and out beyond  it, passing into that golden cloud called  the Bridge of the
Gods, which circles the entire world, is seen as  a bronze  rainbow at night
and is the place where the red sun becomes orange at midday.
     Some  of the monks doubted the orthodoxy of  this prayer technique, but
the machine  had been built and was operated  by Yama-Dharma, fallen, of the
Celestial City; and, it was  told, he had ages ago  built the mighty thunder
chariot of Lord  Shiva: that engine  that  fled across the  heavens belching
gouts of fire in its wake.
     Despite his tall  from favor, Yama was  still  deemed  mightiest of the
artificers,  though it was  not doubted that the Gods of the City would have
him to die  the real death  were they to learn of the pray-machine. For that
matter,  though, it was not doubted that they would have him to die the real
death  without the  excuse of the pray-machine,  also,  were he to come into
their custody. How he  would settle this matter with the Lords of Karma  was
his own affair, though none doubted  that when the time came he would find a
way. He was half as old as the Celestial  City itself, and not more than ten
of the gods remembered the founding of that abode. He was known to  be wiser
even than the Lord  Kubera in the ways of the Universal Fire. But these were
his  lesser Attributes. He was best  known for another thing, though few men
spoke of  it. Tall, but  not overly  so; big,  but not heavy; his movements,
slow and fluent. He wore red and spoke little.
     He tended the  pray-machine, and  the giant metal lotus he had set atop
the monastery roof turned and turned in its sockets.
     A light rain was falling upon the building, the lotus and the jungle at
the foot  of the mountains. For six  days he  had offered  many kilowatts of
prayer, but the static kept him from being heard On High. Under his  breath,
he called  upon the more notable of  the current fertility deities, invoking
them in terms of their most prominent Attributes.
     A  rumble  of  thunder  answered  his petition, and  the small  ape who
assisted  him chuckled. "Your prayers and your curses come to the same. Lord
Yama," commented the ape. "That is to say, nothing."
     "It has taken you seventeen incarnations to arrive at this truth?" said
Yama. "I can see then why you are still doing time as an ape."
     "Not so,"  said  the  ape,  whose name was  Tak. "My  fall,  while less
spectacular than your own, nevertheless involved elements of personal malice
on the part of -- "
     "Enough!" said Yama, turning his back to him.
     Tak realized then that he might  have touched upon  a  sore spot. In an
attempt to find another subject for conversation, he crossed to the  window,
leapt onto its wide sill and stared upward.
     "There is a break in the cloud cover, to the west," he said.
     Yama approached,  followed  the  direction of his  gaze,  frowned,  and
nodded.
     "Aye," he said. "Stay where you are and advise me."
     He moved to a bank of controls.
     Overhead, the lotus halted in its turning, then faced the patch of bare
sky.
     "Very good," he said. "We're getting something."
     His hand  moved  across  a separate control panel, throwing a series of
switches and adjusting two dials.
     Below them, in the cavernous cellars of the monastery,  the signal  was
received and other preparations were begun: the host was made ready.
     "The clouds are coming together again!" cried Tak.
     "No  matter, now,"  said  the  other.  "We've  hooked our fish.  Out of
Nirvana and into the lotus, he comes."
     There was more thunder, and the rain came down with a  sound like  hail
upon  the  lotus.  Snakes  of  blue  lightning  coiled,  hissing, about  the
mountaintops.
     Yama sealed a final circuit.
     "How do you think he will take to wearing the flesh again?" asked Tak.
     "Go peel bananas with your feet!"
     Tak chose  to  consider  this  a  dismissal  and departed the  chamber,
leaving Yama to close down the machinery.  He made his way along a  corridor
and down a wide flight  of stairs. He reached the landing,  and as he  stood
there he heard the sound  of voices  and the shuffling  of sandals coming in
his direction from out a side hall.
     Without  hesitating,  he  climbed  the wall, using a series  of  carved
panthers and an opposing row of elephants as  handholds. Mounting a  rafter,
he drew back into a well of shadow and waited, unmoving.
     Two dark-robed monks entered through the archway.
     "So why can she not clear the sky for them?" said the first.
     The  second, an older, more heavily  built man, shrugged. "I am no sage
that I can  answer such questions. That she  is anxious  is obvious, or  she
should never have granted them this sanctuary, nor Yama this usage. But  who
can mark the limits of night?"
     "Or the moods of a woman,"  said the first. "I have heard that even the
priests did not know of her coming."
     "That may be. Whatever the case, it would seem a good omen."
     "So it would seem."
     They passed through another archway, and  Tak listened to the sounds of
their going until there was only silence.
     Still, he did not leave his perch.
     The "she"  referred to  by the  monks could only be  the  goddess Ratri
herself, worshiped by the order that had given sanctuary to the followers of
Great-Souled Sam, the Enlightened One.  Now,  Ratri, too, was to be numbered
among those fallen from the Celestial City and wearing the skin of a mortal.
She had  every reason  to be bitter  over the whole affair; and Tak realized
the chance she  was taking in granting sanctuary, let alone being physically
present during this undertaking. It could jeopardize any possibility of  her
future reinstatement if word of it got out and  reached the proper ears. Tak
recalled her as the dark-haired beauty with silver eyes, passing in her moon
chariot of ebony and chromium, drawn by stallions black and white, tended by
her guard, also black and white, passing  up  the Avenue of Heaven, rivaling
even Sarasvati in her glory. His heart leapt within his hairy breast. He had
to see her again. One night, long ago, in happier times and  better form, he
had  danced with  her, on a balcony under  the stars. It had been for only a
few moments. But he remembered; and it is a difficult thing to be an ape and
to have such memories.
     He climbed down from the rafter.
     There was a tower,  a high tower rising from the northeast comer of the
monastery. Within  that tower  was  a  chamber. It was  said to contain  the
indwelling  presence of  the  goddess.  It  was  cleaned  daily, the  linens
changed,  fresh  incense  burnt and  a votive  offering laid just within the
door. That door was normally kept locked.
     There were, of  course, windows. The question as to whether a man could
have  entered  by means of  any of these windows must  remain  academic. Tak
proved that an ape could.
     Mounting the  monastery  roof,  he proceeded to scale the tower, moving
from brick to  slippery brick, from projection to irregularity, the  heavens
growling  doglike above him, until  finally  he clung to the wall just below
the outer sill. A steady rain fell upon him. He heard a bird singing within.
He saw the edge of a wet, blue scarf hanging over the sill.
     He caught hold  of the ledge  and raised  himself  until he could  peer
inside.
     Her back was to him. She wore a dark blue sari, and she was seated on a
small bench at the opposite end of the room.
     He clambered onto the sill and cleared his throat.
     She  turned  quickly.  She  wore a  veil,  so that  her  features  were
indistinguishable. She regarded him through it,  then rose and  crossed  the
chamber.
     He was dismayed.  Her figure, once lithe, was wide about the waist; her
walk, once the swaying of boughs, was a waddle; her complexion was too dark;
even through the veil the lines of her nose and jaw were too pronounced.
     He  bowed his  head. "'And  so  you have drawn near to us, who  at your
coming have come home," he sang, "'as birds to their nest upon the tree.'"
     She stood, still as her statue in the main hall below.
     "'Guard us from the she-wolf and the wolf, and guard us from the thief,
oh Night, and so be good for us to pass.'"
     She reached out slowly and laid her hand upon his head.
     "You  have  my  blessing,  little   one,"  she  said,  after  a   time.
"Unfortunately, that is  all I can give. I cannot offer protection or render
beauty, who lack these luxuries myself. What is your name?"
     "Tak," he told her.
     She touched her brow. "I once  knew a Tak," she said, "in a bygone day,
a distant place. . ."
     "I am that Tak, madam."
     She seated herself upon the sill. After a time, he  realized  that  she
was weeping, within her veil.
     "Don't cry, goddess. Tak is here. Remember Tak, of the Archives? Of the
Bright Spear? He stands yet ready to do thy bidding."
     "Tak. . ." she said. "Oh, Tak! You, too? I did not know, I never heard.
. ."
     "Another turning of the wheel, madam, and who  knows? Things may yet be
better than even once they were."
     Her shoulders shook. He reached out, drew back his hand.
     She turned and took it.
     After an age, she spoke: "Not  by the normal  course of events shall we
be  restored or  matters settled, Tak of the Bright Spear. We must beat  our
own path."
     "What mean you?" he inquired; then, "Sam?"
     She nodded.
     "He is  the one. He is our hope against Heaven, dear  Tak. If he can be
recalled, we have a chance to live again."
     "This is why  you  have taken this chance,  why you yourself sit within
the jaws of the tiger?"
     "Why else? When there is no real hope we must mint our own. If the coin
be counterfeit it still may be passed."
     "Counterfeit? You do not believe he was the Buddha?"
     She  laughed, briefly. "Sam was the greatest charlatan in the memory of
god  or  man. He was also the worthiest  opponent Trimurti ever faced. Don't
look so shocked  at  my  saying  it.  Archivist! You  know that he stole the
fabric   of  his  doctrine,  path  and  attainment,  the  whole  robe,  from
prehistorical forbidden sources. It was a weapon, nothing more. His greatest
strength was his insincerity. If we could have <i>him</i> back . . ."
     "Lady, saint or charlatan, he <i>is</i> returned."
     "Do not jest with me, Tak."
     "Goddess  and  Lady,  I  just  left  the Lord Yama  shutting  down  the
pray-machine, frowning his frown of success."
     "The  venture was against such mighty odds.  .  . . Lord Agni once said
that no such thing could ever be done."
     Tak stood.
     "Goddess Ratri," he said, "who, be he god or man,  or anything between,
knows more of such matters than Yama?"
     "I have no answer for  that question,  Tak,  because there is none. But
how can you say of a certainty that he has netted us our fish?"
     "Because he is Yama."
     "Then take my arm, Tak. Escort me again, as  once you did. Let  us view
the sleeping Boddhisatva."
     He led her out the door, down the stairs, and into the chambers below.

     Light,  born  not of torches but of  the generators of Yama, filled the
cavern. The bed, set  upon a platform,  was closed about on  three  sides by
screens. Most of the machinery was also masked by screens  and hangings. The
saffron-robed  monks  who were in attendance moved silently about the  great
chamber. Yama, master artificer, stood at the bedside.
     As  they  approached, several of  the  well-disciplined,  imperturbable
monks uttered brief exclamations. Tak then turned  to the woman at his  side
and drew back a pace, his breath catching in his throat.
     She was no longer the dumpy little matron with whom he had spoken. Once
again did he  stand  at the  side of  Night  Immortal, of whom  it has  been
written, "The goddess has filled wide space, to its depths and  its heights.
Her radiance drives out the dark."
     He looked but  a moment and covered his eyes. She still had this  trace
of her distant Aspect about her.
     "Goddess. . ." he began.
     "To the sleeper," she stated. "He stirs."
     They advanced to the bedstead.
     Thereafter  to  be  portrayed  in  murals  at  the  ends  of  countless
corridors, carved upon the walls of Temples and painted onto the ceilings of
numerous  palaces, came  the  awakening of  he who  was variously  known  as
Mahasamatman, Kalkin, Manjusri,  Siddhartha,  Tathagatha, Binder,  Maitreya,
the Enlightened One, Buddha  and Sam. At  his left was the goddess of Night;
to his right stood Death; Tak, the ape, was crouched at the foot of the bed,
eternal comment upon the coexistence of the animal and the divine.
     He  wore  an  ordinary,  darkish  body  of medium  height and age;  his
features  were regular and undistinguished; when his  eyes opened, they were
dark.
     "Hail, Lord of Light!" It was Ratri who spoke these words.
     The eyes blinked.  They did not focus. Nowhere in the chamber was there
any movement.
     "Hail, Mahasamatman -- Buddha!" said Yama.
     The eyes stared ahead, unseeing.
     "Hello, Sam," said Tak.
     The forehead  creased slightly, the eyes squinted, fell upon Tak, moved
on to the others.
     "Where . . . ?" he asked, in a whisper.
     "My monastery," answered Ratri.
     Without expression, he looked upon her beauty.
     Then he shut his eyes and held them tightly closed, wrinkles forming at
their corners.  A grin of pain made his mouth a bow,  his teeth  the arrows,
clenched.
     "Are you truly he whom we have named?" asked Yama.
     He did not answer.
     "Are you he who fought the army of Heaven to  a standstill on the banks
of the Vedra?"
     The mouth slackened.
     "Are you he who loved the goddess of Death?"
     The eyes flickered. A faint smile came and went across the lips.
     "It is he," said Yama; then, "Who are you, man?"
     "I? I am nothing,"  replied  the other. "A leaf caught in a  whirlpool,
perhaps. A feather in the wind. . ."
     "Too bad," said Yama, "for there are leaves and  feathers enough in the
world for me to have labored so long only to increase their number. I wanted
me a man, one who might continue a war  interrupted by his  absence -- a man
of  power  who  could oppose with that power the will of gods. I thought you
were he."
     "I am"--  he  squinted again"-- Sam.  I am Sam. Once-- long ago . . . I
<i>did</i> fight, didn't I? Many times . . ."
     "You were Great-Souled Sam, the Buddha. Do you remember?"
     "Maybe I was . . ." A slow fire was kindled in his eyes.
     "Yes," he  said then. "Yes, I was.  Humblest of the proud,  proudest of
the humble.  I fought. I taught  the Way for a time. I fought again,  taught
again, tried  politics,  magic, poison  . .  . I fought one great  battle so
terrible the sun itself hid its face from the slaughter-- with men and gods,
with animals and  demons,  with  spirits of  the earth and air, of  fire and
water, with slizzards and horses, swords and chariots-- "
     "And you lost," said Yama.
     "Yes, I did, didn't I? But it was quite a showing we gave them,  wasn't
it?  You, deathgod, were my charioteer. It all comes back to me now. We were
taken prisoner  and the Lords of Karma  were  to be our judges. You  escaped
them by the will-death and the Way of the Black Wheel. I could not."
     "That is correct. Your past was laid out before them. You were judged."
Yama regarded the monks who now sat  upon the floor, their  heads bowed, and
he lowered his voice. "To have you to die the real death would have made you
a martyr. To have permitted you to walk  the world,  in any form, would have
left the door open for your return. So, as you stole your teachings from the
Gottama of another place and time,  did they  steal the tale  of the end  of
that one's days among men. You were judged worthy of Nirvana. Your <i>atman</i> was
projected, not into another  body, but into  the  great magnetic cloud  that
encircles  this  planet.  That  was over  half a  century  ago. You  are now
officially an avatar of  Vishnu, whose teachings were misinterpreted by some
of his more zealous  followers.  You, personally, continued to exist only in
the form of self-perpetuating wavelengths, which I succeeded in capturing."
     Sam closed his eyes.
     "And you <i>dared</i> to bring me back?"
     "That is correct."
     "I was aware of my condition the entire time."
     "I suspected as much."
     His eyes opened, blazing. "Yet you dared recall me from <i>that</i>?"
     "Yes."
     Sam bowed his head. "Rightly  are you called deathgod, Yama-Dharma. You
have snatched away from me the ultimate experience. You have broken upon the
dark stone of  your will that  which is beyond  all comprehension and mortal
splendor. Why could you not have left me as I was, in the sea of being?"
     "Because  a  world  has need  of your humility,  your piety, your great
teaching and your Machiavellian scheming."
     "Yama, I'm old," he said. "I'm as old as man upon this world. I was one
of the  First, you know. One of the very  first to come here,  to  build, to
settle. All of the others are dead  now, or are gods -- <i>dei ex  machini</i>. . .
The chance was mine also, but I let it go by. Many times. I never wanted  to
be a god, Yama. Not  really. It was  only later,  only when I saw  what they
were doing,  that I began to gather what  power I  could to me. It  was  too
late, though. They were  too  strong. Now I just want  to sleep the sleep of
ages,  to  know again the Great Rest, the perpetual bliss, to hear the songs
the stars sing on the shores of the great sea."
     Ratri leaned forward and looked into his  eyes. "We need you, Sam," she
said.
     "I  know, I  know," he  told her.  "It's the eternal recurrence of  the
anecdote. You've a willing horse, so flog him another  mile." But he  smiled
as he said it, and she kissed his brow.
     Tak leaped into the air and bounced upon the bed.
     "Mankind rejoices," observed the Buddha.
     Yama handed him a robe and Ratri fitted him with slippers.
     Recovering  from the peace which passeth understanding takes time.  Sam
slept. Sleeping, he  dreamed; dreaming,  he cried out, or just cried. He had
no  appetite; but  Yama had found him  a body  both sturdy  and  in  perfect
health,  one  well  able  to bear  the psychosomatic  conversion from divine
withdrawal.
     But he would  sit  for an hour, unmoving, staring at a pebble or a seed
or a leaf. And on these occasions, he could not be aroused. Yama saw in this
a  danger, and he  spoke of  it with Ratri and Tak. "It is not  good that he
withdraw from the world in this way, now," he said. "I have spoken with him,
but it  is as if I addressed the  wind. He cannot recover that  which he has
left behind. The very attempt is costing him his strength."
     "Perhaps you misread his efforts," said Tak.
     "What mean you?"
     "See how  he regards the  seed  he  has  set before him?  Consider  the
wrinkling at the edges of his eyes."
     "Yes? What of it?"
     "He squints. Is his vision impaired?"
     "It is not."

     "Then why does he squint?"
     "To better study the seed."
     "Study? That is not the Way, as once he  taught it. Yet he  <i>does</i> study.
He does not meditate, seeking within the object that which leads to  release
of the subject. No."
     "What then does he do?"
     "The reverse."
     "The reverse?"
     "He  does study  the object, considering its ways, in an effort to bind
himself. He  seeks within  it an excuse to live. He tries once more  to wrap
himself within the fabric of Maya, the illusion of the world."
     "I believe you are right, Tak!" It  was Ratri who had spoken. "How  can
we assist him in his efforts?"
     "I am not certain, mistress."
     Yama nodded, his dark hair glistening  in a bar of  sunlight  that fell
across the narrow porch.
     "You  have  set  your  finger  upon  the  thing  I  could not see,"  he
acknowledged. "He  has not yet fully returned, though he wears a body, walks
upon human feet, talks as we do. His thought is still beyond our ken."
     "What then shall we do?" repeated Ratri.
     "Take him on long walks  through the countryside," said Yama. "Feed him
delicacies.  Stir  his  soul with  poetry and song. Find him strong drink to
drink-- there is none here in the monastery.  Garb him in bright-hued silks.
Fetch him a  courtesan  or  three. Submerge him in  living again. It is only
thus that he may be freed from the  chains of God. Stupid of me  not to have
seen it sooner . . ."
     "Not really, deathgod," said Tak.
     The flame that  is black  leapt within Yama's eyes, and then he smiled.
"I am repaid,  little one,"  he  acknowledged, "for the comments  I, perhaps
thoughtlessly, let fall  upon thy hairy ears. I apologize, ape-one. You  are
truly a man, and one of wit and perception."
     Tak bowed before him.
     Ratri chuckled.
     "Tell  us, clever Tak-- for mayhap we have been  gods too long, and  so
lack the proper  angle of vision--  how shall  we  proceed in this matter of
rehumanizing him, so as to best serve the ends we seek?"
     Tak bowed him then to Ratri.
     "As Yama has proposed," he stated. "Today, mistress, you take him for a
walk in  the foothills.  Tomorrow, Lord Yama conducts him as far as the edge
of the forest. The following day  I shall take him amidst the  trees and the
grasses, the flowers and the vines. And we shall see. We shall."
     "So be it," said Yama, and so it was.

     In the  weeks that followed,  Sam came to  look  forward to these walks
with what appeared at first a mild anticipation, then a moderate enthusiasm,
and  finally a blazing eagerness.  He took  to going  off unaccompanied  for
longer and longer stretches of time: at  first, it was for several  hours in
the morning; then, morning  and  evening. Later, he stayed away all day, and
on occasion a day and a night.
     At the end of the third week, Yama and Ratri discussed  it on the porch
in the early hours of morning.
     "This thing I do not like," said Yama. "We cannot insult him by forcing
our company upon him  now, when he does not wish it. But there is danger out
there, especially for one born again such as he. I would that we knew how he
spends his hours."
     "But whatever he  does,  it  is helping  him to  recover," said  Ratri,
gulping a sweetmeat  and waving a  fleshy hand.  "He  is less  withdrawn. He
speaks more, even jesting. He drinks of the wine we bring him.  His appetite
is returning."
     "Yet, if  he should meet with an agent of  Trimurti, the final doom may
come to pass."
     Ratri chewed  slowly.  "It  is not likely, though, that such should  be
abroad in  this country,  in these days," she stated. "The  animals will see
him as a child and will not harm him.  Men would consider him a holy hermit.
The demons fear him of old, and so respect him."
     But Yama shook  his head.  "Lady,  it is not  so simple. Though I  have
dismantled much of my machinery and hidden it hundreds of leagues from here,
such  a massive  trafficking  of energies as I employed  cannot have  passed
unnoticed. Sooner or later this place will  be visited.  I  used screens and
baffling  devices, but this  general  area  must have  appeared  in  certain
quarters as though the Universal Fire did a dance upon the map. Soon we must
move on. I should prefer to wait until our charge is fully recovered, but. .
."
     "Could not certain natural forces have produced the same energy effects
as your workings?"
     "Yes, and they do occur  in this vicinity, which is  why I  chose it as
our base-- so  it  may well be that nothing will come  of it. Still, I doubt
this. My spies in the villages report no unusual  activities now. But on the
day of his return, riding upon the crest of the storm, some say the  thunder
chariot passed, hunting through the heavens and across the countryside. This
was far from here, but I cannot believe that there was no connection."
     "Yet, it has not returned."
     "Not that we know of. But I fear . . ."
     "Then  let us depart at  once. I respect your forebodings too well. You
have more of the  power upon you than any other among the Fallen. For me, it
is  a  great  strain  even  to assume a  pleasing shape for more than  a few
minutes . . ."
     "What powers  I  possess," said Yama, refilling her teacup, "are intact
because they were not of the same order as yours."
     He smiled then, showing even rows of  long, brilliant teeth. This smile
caught at the edge of a scar upon his left cheek and reached up to the comer
of his eye. He winked to put a period to it and continued, "Much of my power
is in the form of knowledge,  which  even the Lords of Karma could  not have
wrested from me. The power of most  of the gods, however, is predicated upon
a  special physiology, which they  lose in part when  incarnated into a  new
body.  The mind, somehow remembering,  after  a time  alters any body  to  a
certain extent,  engendering a new homeostasis, permitting  a gradual return
of power. Mine does return quickly, though, and it is with me fully now. But
even if it were not, I have my knowledge to use as  a weapon-- and that is a
power."
     Ratri sipped  her tea. "Whatever  its source, if your power  says move,
then move we must. How soon?"
     Yama opened a pouch of tobacco  and rolled a cigarette as he spoke. His
dark, supple fingers, she noted, always  had about then: movement that which
was like the movements of one who played upon an instrument of music.
     "I should say let us not tarry here more than another week or ten days.
We must wean him from this countryside by then."
     She nodded. "Where to then?"
     "Some  small  southern  kingdom,  perhaps,  where  we may  come  and go
undisturbed."
     He lit the cigarette, breathed smoke.
     "I've a  better idea," said she. "Know  that under  a  mortal name am I
mistress of the Palace of Kama in Khaipur."
     "The Fornicatorium, madam?"
     She frowned. "As such is it often known to  the vulgar, and do not call
me 'madam' in the same breath-- it smacks of an ancient jest. It is  a place
of rest, pleasure, holiness and much of my revenue. There,  I feel, would be
a good hiding place for our  charge while  he makes  his recovery and we our
plans."
     Yama  slapped his  thigh. "Aye! Aye!  Who would think to  look  for the
Buddha in a whorehouse? Good! Excellent! To Khaipur, then, dear goddess-- to
Khaipur and the Palace of Love!"
     She stood and stamped her sandal upon the flagstones. "I will not  have
you speak that way of my establishment!"
     He dropped his  eyes, and with pain dropped the grin from his  face. He
stood then and bowed. "I apologize, dear  Ratri, but  the revelation came so
sudden-- " He choked then and looked  away. When he looked back, he was full
of  sobriety and  decorum.  He  continued, "That I was taken  aback  by  the
apparent incongruity. Now, though, I do see the wisdom of the thing. It is a
most  perfect cover-up, and  it  provides you both with wealth  and, what is
more  important,  with a  source of privy information among  the  merchants,
warriors and priests. It is an indispensable part of the community. It gives
you  status and  a voice in civil affairs. Being a god is one of  the oldest
professions in the world. It is only fitting, therefore, that we fallen ones
take umbrage within the pale of another venerable tradition. I salute you. I
give  thanks  for  your  wisdom  and  forethought.  I  do  not  slander  the
enterprises of a benefactor and coconspirator.  In  fact, I look  forward to
the visit."
     She smiled and seated  herself  once  more. "I accept  your  well-oiled
apology, oh son of the serpent. In any event, it is too difficult to  remain
angry with you. Pour me some more tea, please."
     They reclined, Ratri sipping  her tea, Yama smoking. In the distance, a
storm front  drew a curtain across  half the prospect. The  sun still  shone
upon them, however, and a cool breeze visited the porch.
     "You have seen the ring, the ring of iron which he wears?" asked Ratri,
eating another sweetmeat.
     "Yes."
     "Know you where he obtained it?"
     "I do not."
     "Nor I. But I feel we should learn its origin."
     "Aye."
     "How shall we essay this thing?"
     "I have assigned the  chore to Tak, who is better suited to the ways of
the forest than we. Even now he follows the trail."
     Ratri nodded. "Good," she said.
     "I have heard," said Yama, "that the gods  do  still occasionally visit
the more notable palaces of Kama throughout the land, generally in disguise,
but sometimes in full power. Is this true?"
     "Yes. But a  year  ago did Lord Indra come to Khaipur. Some three years
back, the  false Krishna  made  a visit. Of all the Celestial party, Krishna
the  Tireless  does  cause the  greatest consternation among  the  staff. He
stayed for  a  month of riot, which  involved much broken furniture and  the
services  of  many  physicians. He did  near empty the wine cellar  and  the
larder.  He played then  upon his  pipes one  night, however, the hearing of
which would have  been  enough  to gain the old Krishna forgiveness for near
anything. But  it  was not the true magic we heard that night, for  there is
only  one true Krishna-- swart and  hairy, his eyes so red and blazing. This
one  did  dance  upon  the  tables,  causing  much  havoc,  and his  musical
accompaniment was insufficient."
     "Paid he for this carnage with other than a song?"
     She laughed.  "Come  now, Yama. Let there  be  no  rhetorical questions
between us."
     He snorted smoke.
     "Surya,  the  sun, is now about to be encompassed," said Ratri, staring
out  and upward, "and Indra slays the dragon. At any moment,  the rains will
arrive."
     A  wave  of  grayness  covered  over  the  monastery. The  breeze  grew
stronger, and  the  dance of  the waters began upon the walls. Like a beaded
curtain, the rain covered that open end of the porch at which they stared.
     Yama poured more tea. Ratri ate another sweetmeat.

     Tak made his way through the forest. He moved from tree to tree, branch
to branch, watching the trail below him. His fur  was moist, for  the leaves
shook small showers  down upon him as he passed. Clouds mounted at his back,
but the sun of early morning still shone in the  eastern sky and the  forest
was a  swarm of colors in its red-gold light. About him, birds  were singing
from within  the tangle  of branches, vines,  leaves and grasses that  stood
like  a wall upon  either side  of  the trail. The birds made  their  music,
insects hummed and occasionally there was a growl  or  bark. The foliage was
stirred by the wind. Below him, the trail bent sharply, entering a clearing.
Tak  dropped  to  the  ground,  proceeded on  foot. At the other side of the
clearing he took to the  trees again. Now, he noticed, the trail was running
parallel to the mountains, even inclining slightly back in  their direction.
There was a distant rattle of thunder and after a time a new breeze came up,
cool. He swung on,  breaking  through moist  spider webs,  frightening birds
into shrieking flurries of bright plumage. The trail  continued to  move  in
the direction of the mountains,  slowly doubling back upon itself. At times,
it met with other hard-packed,  yellow trails,  dividing, crossing, parting.
On these occasions,  he  descended  to the  ground and studied  the  surface
markings.  Yes, Sam  had turned <i>here</i>; Sam had  stopped beside  <i>this</i> pool  to
drink-- here, where the orange  mushrooms grew taller  than a tall  man, and
wide  enough  to shelter several from  the rains; now, Sam  had  taken  <i>that</i>
branch of the  roadway; here, he had stopped to fix a sandal strap;  at this
point,  he had  leaned upon  a tree, which showed indications  of housing  a
dryad. . . .
     Tak moved on, about half  an hour behind  his quarry, as he judged it--
so giving him plenty of time to get to wherever  he was  going  and to begin
whatever activity  so  engaged  his enthusiasms. A  halo  of heat  lightning
reached above the mountains he was now facing. There was  another rumble  of
thunder.  The  trail  headed on  up into  the foothills,  where  the  forest
thinned, and  Tak moved  on  all fours amid tall grasses. It headed steadily
upward, and  rocky  outcroppings became  more and more prominent. Still, Sam
had passed this way, so Tak followed.
     Overhead,  the pollen-colored Bridge of the Gods vanished as the clouds
rolled  steadily  eastward. Lightning flashed, and now the  thunder followed
quickly. The wind came faster here in the open; the grasses bent down before
it; the temperature seemed suddenly to plummet.
     Tak felt  the first drops of rain and dashed for the  shelter of one of
the  stands of stone. It ran like a narrow hedge,  slightly slanted  against
the  rain. Tak moved along its base  as  the waters were unleashed and color
deserted the world along with the last bit of blue in the sky.
     A sea of turbulent light  appeared  overhead, and three  times  spilled
streams that rode crazy crescendo down to splash upon the stone fang curving
blackly into the wind, about a quarter mile up the slope.
     When Tak's vision  cleared, he saw that which he did now understand. It
was as though each bolt that had fallen had left a part of itself, standing,
swaying in  the gray  air, pulsing  fires,  despite the  wetness  that  came
steadily down upon the ground.
     Then Tak heard  the laughter-- or was it a ghost sound left in his ears
by the recent thunder?
     No, it was laughter-- gigantic, unhuman!
     After a time, there came a  howl of rage. Then there was another flash,
another rumble.
     Another funnel of fire swayed beside the stone fang.
     Tak lay  still for about five minutes. Then it  came again--  the howl,
followed by three bright flashes and the crash.
     Now there were seven pillars of fire. Dared he approach, skirting these
things, spying upon the fang peak from its opposite side?
     And if he did, and if--  as he  felt--  Sam was  somehow involved, what
good  could  he do if  the  Enlightened  One  himself could  not  handle the
situation?
     He had no answer,  but he found himself moving forward, crouched low in
the damp grass, swinging far to his left.
     When he was halfway there it happened again,  and  ten  of  the  things
towered, red and gold  and  yellow,  drifting  and  returning, drifting  and
returning, as though their bases were rooted to the ground.
     He  crouched there wet and shivering, examined his courage and found it
to be a  small thing indeed. Yet, he pushed  on until he was parallel to the
strange place, then past it.
     He drew up  behind  it,  finding  himself  in the  midst  of many large
stones. Grateful  for  their shelter  and the  cover  they  provided against
observation from  below,  he inched forward, never taking his eyes from  the
fang.
     He could  see now that it was partly hollow.  There  was a dry, shallow
cave at its  base, and two figures knelt  within it. Holy men  at prayer? He
wondered.
     Then it happened.  The  most frightful  flashing  he had ever seen came
down upon  the stones--  not once, or for a  mere  instant. It  was  as if a
fire-tongued beast licked and licked about the stone, growling as it did so,
for perhaps a quarter of a minute.
     When Tak opened his eyes, he counted twenty of the blazing towers.
     One of  the holy men  leaned forward, gestured. The  other laughed. The
sound carried to where Tak  lay, and the  words: "Eyes  of the serpent! Mine
now!"
     "What is  the  quantity?"  asked the second, and Tak knew it to  be the
voice of Great-Souled Sam.
     "Twice, or  none  at all!"  roared  the  other,  and he leaned forward,
rocked back, then gestured as Sam had done.
     "Nina from  Srinagina!"  he chanted,  and leaned,  rocked, and gestured
once more.
     "Sacred seven," Sam said softly.
     The other howled.
     Tak closed  his eyes and  covered  his ears,  expecting what might come
after that howl.
     Nor was he mistaken.
     When the blaze and the tumult had passed, he looked down upon an eerily
illuminated scene. He did not bother counting. It was apparent that forty of
the  flame  like things now hung about the place, casting  their weird glow:
their number had doubled.
     The  ritual continued. On the  left hand of the  Buddha,  the iron ring
glowed with a pale, greenish light all its own.
     He heard the words "Twice, or none at all" repeated again, and he heard
the Buddha say "Sacred seven" once more, in reply.
     This  time  he thought  the  mountainside would come apart beneath him.
This time he thought the  brightness was  an afterimage,  tattooed upon  his
retina through closed eyelids. But he was wrong.
     When  he  opened his  eyes  it  was  to look upon a veritable  army  of
shifting thunderbolts. Their blaze jabbed  into his brain, and he shaded his
eyes to stare down below.
     "Well, Raltariki?" asked Sam, and a  bright emerald light played  about
his left hand.
     "One time again, Siddhartha. Twice, or not at all."
     The rains let up for a moment, and, in the great blaze from the host on
the hillside, Tak saw that the one called Raltariki had the  head of a water
buffalo and an extra pair of arms.
     He shivered.
     He covered his eyes  and ears and  clenched his teeth, waiting. After a
time, it happened. It roared and blazed,  going  on and on until finally  he
lost consciousness.
     When he recovered  his senses, there  was only a grayness and a  gentle
rain between  himself and the sheltering rock.  At its base only one  figure
sat, and  it did not  wear  horns or  appear to possess more  arms than  the
customary two.
     Tak did not move. He waited.

     "This," said Yama, handing him an aerosol,  "is demon repellent. In the
future, I  suggest you annoint  yourself thoroughly  if you intend venturing
very  far from the monastery. I had thought this region free of the Rakasha,
or I would have given it to you sooner."
     Tak accepted the container, placed it on the table before him.
     They sat  in Yama's  chambers,  having taken  a light meal  there. Yama
leaned back in his  chair,  a glass of the Buddha's wine in his left hand, a
half-filled decanter in his right.
     "Then the one called Raltariki is really a demon?" asked Tak.
     "Yes--  and  no," said  Yama,  "If  by  'demon'  you  mean  a  malefic,
supernatural creature, possessed of great powers, life span and  the ability
to temporarily assume virtually any  shape-- then  the answer is no. This is
the generally accepted definition, but it is untrue in one respect."
     "Oh? And what may that be?"
     "It is not a supernatural creature."
     "But it is all those other things?"
     "Yes."
     "Then I fail to see what difference it makes whether it be supernatural
or not-- so long as it is malefic, possesses great powers and life span  and
has the ability to change its shape at will."
     "Ah, but