Pierced by the skewer of sin.
Basted with the butter oil of the five senses.
Grilled on the flames of love and hatred.
So man is devoured by death.
—Saktananda-tarangini

The demon grew voracious, compelling her to absorb heavier doses of the drug before permitting her to sink into murky slumber. In her dreams, shadowy monsters chased her through the same dreary labyrinth, confounding her with a thousand twists and turns. She would struggle to find a way out, but always, just on the verge of escape, a masked man would leap up out of nowhere and force her back into the maze with sharp jabs of his spear.

Sometimes Ghora would hover over her, his pig-eyes glittering with malice. “Be assured, slut,” he would whine, “...

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