".. what was she doing so far out from where anyone could find her?" Shippo thinks to himself when he and Miroku finally find Sango.
The further they venture into the desert, the more intense the concentration of demon-spirits become, until it's almost a tangible presence surrounding them, always, under the sand. Hidden, until nightfall.
They sleep in the day, spread out like roadkill over the sands, the intense blaze of the sun leaving them always, just on the edge of sleep.
Come nightfall, Kilala rises from the sands before the spirits can latch onto her, and carries Miroku high across the dunes, as far as she dares. The insomnia slowly eatting her spirit until she can barely walk, when they do land, little feet wobbling beneath her.
Shippo ventures off in the air to the side as much as he is able, maintaining his bubble-like form. But he is still too young, not strong enough to maintain it for long, and has come back every few minutes to rest on Kilala's back.
The spirits are bound to the sands, unable to fly. They squirm beneath the airborne travelers, leeches in the sand, blood-sucking worms in mud, able to sense the lure of flesh far above them.
Miroku senses the presence from miles off.
At first it's faint beneath the echoing taint of the phantoms, like blue smoke nestled in a sea of black - nearly invisible.
The closer they get, the stronger it becomes. Until Miroku is left with nothing but certainty that there is a demonic presence in the east. One solid and tangible, unlike the ghosts of the dead. There is enough difference in their auras for him to be sure.
It is the difference between a boulder and a thousand tiny misquitos, fleeting in the wind. Between smoke, and the flame.
In the direction of the rising sun.