“I know we are alone here, and you are unarmed,” said Yama.
“We are alone here. My traveling gear is hidden farther along my route.”
“Your traveling gear?”
“I have finished here. You guessed correctly. I have begun what I set out to begin. After we have finished our conversation, I will depart.”
Yama chuckled. “The optimism of a revolutionary always gives rise to a sense of wonder. How do you propose to depart? On a magic carpet?”
“I shall go as other men go.”
“That is rather condescending of you. Will the powers of the world rise up to defend you? I see no great tree to shelter you with its branches. There is no clever grass to seize at my feet. Tell me how you will achieve your departure?”
“I’d rather surprise you.”
“What say we fight? I do not like to slaughter an unarmed man. If you actually do have supplies cached somewhere nearby, go fetch your blade. It is better than no chance at all. I’ve even heard it said that Lord Siddhartha was, in his day, a formidable swordsman.”
“Thank you, no. Another time, perhaps. But not this time.”
Yama drew once more upon his pipe, stretched, and yawned. “I can think of no more questions then, which I wish to ask you. It is futile to argue with you. I have nothing more to say. Is there anything else that you would care to add to the conversation?”
“Yes,” said Sam. “What’s she like, that bitch Kali? There are so many different reports that I’m beginning to believe she is all things to all men —”
Yama hurled the pipe, which struck him upon the shoulder and sent a shower of sparks down his arm. His scimitar was a bright flash about his head as he leapt forward.
When he struck the sandy stretch before the rock, his motion was arrested. He almost fell, twisted himself perpendicularly and remained standing. He struggled, but could not move.
“Some quicksand,” said Sam, “is quicker than other quicksand. Fortunately, you are settling into that of the slower sort. So you have considerable time yet remaining at your disposal. I would like to prolong the conversation, if I thought I had a chance of persuading you to join with me. But I know that I do not—no more than you could persuade me to go to Heaven.”
“I will get free,” said Yama softly, not struggling. “I will get free somehow, and I will come after you again.”
“Yes,” said Sam, “I feel this to be true. In fact, in a short while I will instruct you how to go about it. For the moment, however, you are something every preacher longs for—a captive audience, representing the opposition. So, I have a brief sermon for you. Lord Yama.”
Yama hefted his blade, decided against throwing it, thrust it again into his sash.
“Preach on,” he said, and he succeeded in catching the other’s eyes.
Sam swayed where he sat, but he spoke again:
“It is amazing,” he said, “how that mutant brain of yours generated a mind capable of transferring its powers to any new brain you choose to occupy. It has been years since I last exercised my one ability, as I am at this moment—but it, too, behaves in a similar manner. No matter what body I inhabit, it appears that my power follows me into it also. I understand it is still that way with most of us. Sitala, I hear, can control temperatures for a great distance about her. When she assumes a new body, the power accompanies her into her new nervous system, though it comes only weakly at first. Agni, I know, can set fire to objects by staring at them for a period of time and willing that they burn. Now, take for example the death-gaze you are at this moment turning upon me. Is it not amazing how you keep this gift about you in all times and places, over the centuries? I have often wondered as to the physiological basis for the phenomenon. Have you ever researched the area?”
“Yes,” said Yama, his eyes burning beneath his dark brows.
“And what is the explanation? A person is born with an abnormal brain, his psyche is later transferred to a normal one and yet his abnormal abilities are not destroyed in the transfer. Why does this thing happen?”