Taraka approached, hovered before him. "It was not by my bidding that he attacked," he stated. "I feel that he was half crazed from his confinement."
Siddhartha shrugged. "For a time now, disport yourselves as you would," he said. "I would have rest from this task," and he departed the smaller cavern.
He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his blanket and dozed.
There came a dream.
He was running.
His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.
It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline. Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer: overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.
Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain over which he fled.
He knew that it was now his own shadow.
The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.
He knew that he was his own doom.
Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud, wanting really to scream.
When he awoke again, he was walking.
He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.
As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.
Again, each cried out to him as he went by:
"Free us, masters!"
And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a thawing.
Masters.
Plural. Not singular.
Masters, they had said.
He knew then that he did not walk alone.
None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about him, below him.
The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had freed were gone.
Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way. But still, he saw.
He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.
He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.
And he had been addressed in the plural.
And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.
He made an effort to halt, to stand still.
He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips moved, forming the words:
"You have awakened, I see. Good morning."
A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately through his own mouth:
"Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder—in your own body?"
Siddhartha formed another thought:
"I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me against my will—even as I slept."
"To give you an honest answer," said the other, "neither did I. But then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed to be worth the attempt."
"And of the others? Where are they?"
"Gone. To wander the world until I summon them."
"And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would have freed them also."
"What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What else matters?"
"I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?"
"Not so," replied the demon. "We shall return to this matter in, say, a lesser moon or so. The idea does appeal to me. I feel that a war with the gods would be a very excellent thing. But first I wish to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh for a time. Why should you begrudge me a little entertainment after the centuries of boredom and imprisonment you have wrought?"
"I must admit, however, that I do begrudge you this use of my person."
"Whatever the case, you must, for a time, put up with it. You, too, shall be in a position to enjoy what I enjoy, so why not make the best of it?"
"You state that you do intend to war against the gods?"
"Yes indeed. I wish I had thought of it myself in the old days. Perhaps, then, we should never have been bound. Perhaps there would no longer be men or gods upon this world. We were never much for concerted action, though. Independence of spirit naturally accompanies our independence of person. Each fought his own battles in the general conflict with mankind. I am a leader, true—by virtue of the fact that I am older and stronger and wiser than the others. They come to me for counsel, they serve me when I order them. But I have never ordered them all into battle. I shall, though, later. The novelty will do much to relieve the monotony."
"I suggest you do not wait, for there will be no 'later', Taraka."
"Why not?"
"I came to Hellwell, the wrath of the gods swarming and buzzing at my back. Now sixty-six demons are loose in the world. Very soon, your presence will be felt. The gods will know who has done this thing, and they will take steps against us. The element of surprise will be lost."
"We fought the gods in the days of old . . ."
"And these are not the days of old, Taraka. The gods are stronger now, much stronger. Long have you been bound, and their might has grown over the ages. Even if you command the first army of Rakasha in history, and backing them in battle I raise me up a mighty army of men—even then, will the final result be a thing uncertain. To delay now is to throw everything away."
"I wish you would not speak to me like this, Siddhartha, for you trouble me."
"I mean to. For all your powers, if you meet the One in Red he will drink your life with his eyes. He will come here to the Ratnagaris, for he follows me. The freedom of demons is as a signpost, directing him hither. He may bring others with him. You may find them more than a match for all of you."
The demon did not reply. They reached the top of the well, and Taraka advanced the two hundred paces to the great door, which now stood open. He stepped out onto the ledge and looked downward.
"You doubt the power of the Rakasha, eh. Binder?" he asked. Then, "Behold!"
He stepped outward, over the edge.
They did not fall.
They drifted, like the leaves he had dropped—how long ago?
Downward.
They landed upon the trail halfway down the mountain called Channa.
"Not only do I contain your nervous system," said Taraka, "but I have permeated your entire body and wrapped it all about with the energies of my being. So send me your One in Red, who drinks life with his eyes. I should like to meet him."
"Though you can walk on air," said Siddhartha, "you speak rashly when you speak thus."
"The Prince Videgha holds his court not far from here, at Palamaidsu," said Taraka, "for I visited there on my return from Heaven. I understand he is fond of gaming. Therefore, thither fare we."
"And if the God of Death should come to join the game?"
"Let him!" cried the other. "You cease to amuse me, Binder. Good night. Go back to sleep!"
There was a small darkness and a great silence, growing and shrinking.
The days that followed were bright fragments.
There would come to him snatches of conversation or song, colorful vistas of galleries, chambers, gardens. And once he looked upon a dungeon where men were hung upon racks, and he heard himself laughing.
Between these fragments there came to him dreams and half dreams. They were lighted with fire, they ran with blood and tears. In a darkened, endless cathedral he rolled dice that were suns and planets. Meteors broke fire above his head, and comets inscribed blazing arcs upon a vault of black glass. There came to him a joy shot through with fear, and he knew it to be mainly that of another, but it was partly his, too. The fear—that was all his.
When Taraka drank too much wine, or lay panting on his wide, low couch in the harem, then was his grip loosened somewhat, upon the body that he had stolen. But Siddhartha was still weak with the mind-bruise, and his body was drunk or fatigued; and he knew that the time had not yet come to contest the mastery of the demon-lord.
There were times when he saw, not through the eyes of the body that had once been his, but saw as a demon saw, in all directions, and stripped flesh and bone from those among whom he passed, to behold the flames of their beings, colored with the hues and shades of their passions, flickering with avarice and lust and envy, darting with greed and hunger, smouldering with hate, waning with fear and pain. His hell was a many-colored place, somewhat mitigated only by the cold blue blaze of a scholar's intellect, the white light of a dying monk, the rose halo of a noble lady who fled his sight, and the dancing, simple colors of children at play.