Again he heard Helen calling to him but could not determine the direction of her voice. And then, as the fleeing proto-Archon led him on, he became aware of a slow, deep pulsing or drumming that filled all of space, and with it came thin weird pipings that reminded his earthly portion of something analogous to flutes… The proto-Archon ceased to flee and faced Simon; its thought-voice boomed out menacingly: “Stop! You approach the Throne of Achamoth—” Simon rushed in and swung. His sword clove the monstrosity and sent it back to the void, bellowing as it dissolved. But now, straight before him, he sensed a pulsing mountain of blackness, blacker even than the scintillating void. Then a monstrous voice came out of it in words powerful and deep as rolling thunder, bubbling and viscous as a boiling sea of pitch: “Who comes to the Throne of Achamoth?” Simon’s human portion recoiled in terror. He had read in Ostanes of Achamoth, the evil Demiurge who had created the material worlds. To the ancient Shemites he had been Aziluth, Creator of Archetypes; to the Stygians he had been Azathoth, to the Persians Azdahak. The Chaldeans called him Tiamat; the Hebrews knew him as Rahab, Monster of Chaos, Lord of the Deeps…