"Azerath?" I whispered.
He came into focus gradually, a shadow swallowed by a field of snow. As my eyes adjusted to the overpowering brightness, I saw him shivering on the floor, curled around himself, eyes tight shut as though in pain. He did not look up at me as I drew closer; he did not move.
"Azerath!"
The sound shivered through the air—but Azerath still didn't look up. Only a faint tensing of his shoulders told me he had registered the sound at all. 
I staggered forward, his silhouette dancing in my vision. If my eyes, so used to the sun-kissed clouds of Heaven, were struggling this much, I could not imagine what such brightness would do to a demon, so used to being shrouded in darkness. 
But at least I could see him, after so many days of longing for a glimpse of him. His spirit face was different from the human face I knew so well, but it was still unmistakably Azerath, shattered and perfect and crumpled on the floor. 
His wings—oh his wings! The proud wings I had so long desired to see were in tatters. Gashes lined the mana of his feathers, and his black pinions stuck out at odd angles.
I wanted to weep. Perhaps I did weep. I don't remember. All my attention was focused on Azerath and the pitiful sight that he made. Demon, like angels, can't die outright, but they can go mad, just like Surazel, and I feared he was broken—that I'd come here too late.
I stumbled down to the ground beside him, the cold biting my senses. The floor was like ice, and Azerath was no better. Without thinking, I wrapped him in my arms. His spirit felt weak, drained, and empty. He barely moved when I touched him. I'm not even sure he noticed me at all. 
"I'm here now," I whispered. "I'm here, Azerath. I won't ever leave you again." 
The words sounded small, as though the cell walls were trying to stifle them. It was quiet in the isolation cell—so quiet. Angels and demons don't breathe, and the mana surrounding the cell seemed to swallow all sound from outside. The silence pressed in on us, draining, oppressive. With that and the white walls, I could see how one might go mad.
"I need you to wake up, my dear," I said, my voice breaking. "Just for a little bit. You have to wake up, so we can leave this place and get you out of the labyrinth."
My voice ebbed and faded into the tiles. Azerath did not stir.
"I'm not leaving without you," I whispered. "I'll stay here forever if I must. You'll never have to be alone again. But please, please wake up."
He didn't wake.
I tried everything I could think of. Whispering to him, kissing his forehead, tugging his clothes. In the end, I sank down onto the floor—and then I did weep, tears of silver mana, which pooled down around us in a soggy puddle. 
"A promise is a promise," I said wetly. "I'm not leaving you, Azerath. I came all this way to find you, and I'm not going without you, even if I have to carry you up all back up all nine levels myself." But I couldn't carry him in my state, and I knew it. 
My sobs sank away, and the silence pressed down on us again, grimmer and more oppressive than ever. 
I couldn't stand that silence anymore.
Without thinking, I began to sing. 
At first it was choir songs, my voice a sad solo against the quiet. Then I remembered Azerath probably wouldn't react well to angelic hymns, and I switched gears—first to a tuneless humming, and then to some tunes I'd picked up on Earth. 
It probably would have helped if Heaven hadn't been so morally opposed to giving us iPods. I was forced to resort to the songs I'd heard at the Youth Program, newish hits like "Wake me up when September ends" but with half the words missing, because I'd only heard the song once before, and—unlike normal, un-ditzy angels who hadn't had their minds tampered with by the Archangels—I struggled to remember things verbatim.