Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny

bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He wanted so for them to worship him—his powerful physique, his carefully molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.
    But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse like Lord Shiva—who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix, seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.
    He rose and stalked off toward his pavilion, past stunted trees that twisted with a certain grotesque beauty, past trellises woven with morning glory, pools of blue water lilies, strings of pearls swinging from rings all wrought of white gold, past lamps shaped like girls, tripods wherein pungent incenses burnt and an eight-armed statue of a blue goddess who played upon the
veena
when properly addressed.
    Brahma entered the pavilion and crossed to the screen of crystal, about which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth. He activated the answering mechanism.
    There was a static snowfall, and then he faced the high priest of his Temple in Mahartha. The priest dropped to his knees and touched his caste mark three times upon the floor.
    "Of the four orders of gods and the eighteen hosts of Paradise, mightiest is Brahma," said the priest. "Creator of all. Lord of high Heaven and everything beneath it. A lotus springs forth from your navel, your hands churn the oceans, in three strides your feet encompass all the worlds. The drum of your glory strikes terror in the hearts of your enemies. Upon your right hand is the wheel of the law. You tether catastrophes, using a snake for rope. Hail! See fit to accept the prayer of your priest. Bless me and hear me, Brahma!'
    "Arise . . . priest," said Brahma, having forgotten his name. "What thing of mighty importance moved you to call me thus?"
    The priest arose, cast a quick glance upon Brahma's dripping person and looked away again.
    "Lord," said the priest, "I did not mean to call while you were at bath, but there is one among your worshipers here now who would speak with you, on a matter which I take to be of mighty importance."
    "One of my worshipers! Tell him that all-hearing Brahma hears all, and direct him to pray to me in the ordinary manner, in the Temple proper!"
    Brahma's hand moved toward the shutoff switch, then paused. "How came he to know of the Temple-to-Heaven line?" he inquired. "And of the direct communion of saints and gods?"
    "He says," replied the priest, "that he is of the First, and that I should relay the message that Sam would have words with Trimurti."
    "Sam?" said Brahma. "Sam? Surely it cannot be . . .
that
Sam?"
    "He is the one known hereabouts as Siddhartha, Binder of the Demons."
    "Await my pleasure," said Brahma, "singing the while various appropriate verses from the Vedas."
    "I hear, my Lord," said the priest, and he commenced singing.
    Brahma moved to another part of the pavilion and stood awhile before his wardrobe, deciding what to wear.
     
    The prince, hearing his name called, turned from the contemplation of the Temple's interior. The priest, whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him along a corridor. He followed, and the passage led into a storage chamber. The priest rumbled after a hidden catch, then drew upon a row of shelves that opened outward, doorlike.
    The prince passed through this doorway. He found himself within a richly decorated shrine. A glowing view-screen hung above its